


A Moment of Clarity

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Serious Injuries, Sexual Content, Sherlock the Vicar, Sherrinford is the oldest Holmes brother, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13919283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: France 1918. Grievously wounded following the Marne Offensive Captain Gregory Lestrade finds himself in a field hospital, the only survivor of his battalion. An artist in his previous life, he contemplates a new career as nerve damage may indicate he will never hold a paintbrush again. Generally optimistic, Gregory realises he's luckier than some, he still has all his limbs and faculties. In the next bed Major Mycroft Holmes considers suicide. As a Cambridge don his life revolved around teaching, books and writing so how can he possibly consider living when his sight has been taken from him? Only the thought of what it would do to his family stays his hand. Thrown together by the horror of war, these two men, worlds apart in their former lives, find friendship and companionship in each other. In a world where this is possible, might there be hope for love as well?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I am no WW1 historian, but I have tried to keep the facts and the timelines as accurate as possible.

A MOMENT OF CLARITY

Summary. World War One AU. Grievously wounded following the Marne offensive Captain Gregory Lestrade finds himself in a field hospital, the only survivor of his battalion. An artist in his previous life, he contemplates a new career as nerve damage may indicate he will never hold a paintbrush again. Generally optimistic, Gregory realises he's luckier than some; he still has all his limbs and his faculties. Unlike the Major in the next bed who must face the rest of his life blind. Major Mycroft Holmes considers suicide. As a Cambridge don, his life revolved around books and writing so how can he possibly consider living when his sight has been taken from him? The gratitude of his men, the ones he saved without a second thought, and the grief it would cause his parents and brothers are the only things that stay his hand.

Thrown together by the horror of war these two men, worlds apart in their former lives, find friendship and companionship in each other. In a world where this is possible, might there be a hope for love as well?

CHAPTER ONE

Life changes in a heartbeat.

Four years of mud, lice, rats, trench foot and bad food.

Four years of watching his friends die needlessly, cut down by machine gun fire, blown apart by shells, trench raids in no-man's-land where the risk of drowning in mud in the company of decaying corpses was all too real, freezing as a flare went up, the slightest movement could bring the attention of the Hun snipers.

Then the Marne offensive where the bullet with his name in it finally found him. Except it was an artillery shell. In his dreams he still heard it screaming towards him and the unbearable agony as white-hot metal cut into him rending flesh and bone. 

How he got here was still a blank, no memory of the CCS or being brought to the field hospital or the subsequent operations to remove the remnants of the shell from his arm and thigh.

His last coherent memory was of pain.

Pain.

An ocean of it. 

Captain Gregory Lestrade shifted in the hospital bed listening jealousy to the heavy breathing and snores of the other patients. 

The canvas of the tented ward creaked, he could even hear the scratching of the night nurse’s pen as she scribbled at her notes at the desk illuminated by a red-shaded light.

Desperate for the sweet sting of the morphia needle, Gregory looked around for distraction.

He wasn't the only one awake. The silent Major was also alert to the slightest of noises, his heavily-bandaged head turning this way and that.

In his time in the field hospital Gregory couldn't help but notice that the man in the next bed never spoke, never made a noise even during the dressing round where Gregory tried, and failed, to be stoic.

Idly, Gregory wondered if the man had been deafened or worse.

Gregory sat up in bed, pushing himself up with the one half of his body that didn't feel like the surgeon had sewn red-hot coals into, and lit a cigarette. It gave him something to concentrate on; removing it one-handed from the packet, tamping down the tobacco, putting it between his lips and struggling to get his trench lighter to work. Finally inhaling the fragrant smoke and expelling it towards the roof of the bell tent, knowing the night VAD would be along shortly to scold him. Then he would ask her for what he really craved. 

*

Major Mycroft Holmes lay silently. He could smell the fragrant tobacco smoke drifting from the bed next to him and he inhaled it like perfume. His own packet lay within easy reach but waking to unremitting blackness had temporarily unmanned him as it did every time. He would never see again. His life was over. He would never return to Cambridge to his comfortable college rooms. He would never see the eager faces of his undergraduates as they debated an obscure point in Shakesperian canon. He would never read another book as long as he lived. He had resolved that he could not live in such a world where everything that defined him had been taken from him. His family would miss him but there wasn't a family in the whole of the United Kingdom and her territories that had not suffered loss during this interminable conflict, they would merely be another statistic.  

He toyed with methods and opportunities as a way to pass the endless hours in this place but it was futile for he was constantly watched, unable to perform the simplest tasks of self-care unsupervised.  

Jonathan would have known how to chase away these dark thoughts but Jonathan had been taken from him at the battle of Vimy Ridge. In a letter from one of his Cambridge colleagues Mycroft had not only learned that his love was dead but that there hadn't been enough of him left to bury.

That had been a year ago but the loss was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

Mycroft inadvertently let out a small sob, the first sound he could remember making since the battle.

He heard the creak of a bed, a muttered oath and the heavy sound of someone making their way laboriously towards him.

“Are you all right?” enquired the man from the bed next to him. Mycroft recognised the London accent from when he had heard him talking to the nurses and the doctor. Mycroft recalled he had also told the chaplain to piss off.

“Are you in pain? Should I get the Sister? Oh shite, I don't even know if you can hear me.”

“I can hear you.” Mycroft's voice was rusty through lack of use. “I just can't see you.”

“ Oh. Right.” The man sounded embarrassed. “Are you in pain?”

“No, and I wouldn't disturb the Sister but if I could trouble you to pass my cigarettes?”

Mycroft felt the packet placed into his hand and he fumbled a cigarette out and placed it between his lips, igniting it with his own lighter.

“Thank you “ he said as he exhaled.

He heard the swish of starched skirts heading their way as a female voice scolded his benefactor.

“Captain Lestrade! What on earth are you doing out of bed? “ 

“ Talking to the Major here, “ 

“You are under strict instructions to remain in bed. Get in at once. What if you had ripped open your stitches? I'll have to check.”

“All right. Sister. I'll be a good boy from now on.”

Mycroft heard a tiny thread of humour in Captain Lestrade’s reply as the man was bundled back into bed and the screens pulled round him.

*

The Sister glared at Gregory as she untied the drawstring of his pyjamas and pulled them down. Finding that dressing intact, she unpinned the sling that was supporting his injured right arm. She sniffed when she found that dressing unsullied as well. 

“Why did you go against the doctor's wishes?” she asked as she helped make him decent again.

Gregory sighed. There had been a world of hurt in that tiny noise from the Major. In a time where men screamed for their mothers, implored every saint in the Bible to help them swore at the tops of their voices, that quiet sob had echoed like thunder, but he didn't think she'd understand.

“I thought he was in pain. I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking.”

Her stern expression softened as she tucked the blankets back around him.

“He's talking and that's a miracle in itself. Are you in pain?”

He nodded, suddenly ashamed of his weakness.

“Lie still and I will bring you something.”

As she pushed back the screens and strode off towards the medicine cupboard, the Major whispered.

“I do hope I didn't get you into any trouble.”

Gregory smiled then realised the other man couldn't see it.

“Don't worry, Sister doesn't frighten me. You just sounded so...hurt. “

“Very perceptive of you, Captain Lestrade.” admitted the Major.

“Call me Gregory, will you? I feel like an impostor when someone calls me Captain.”

“Certainly, Gregory. And I insist you call me Mycroft.”

“Mycroft it is,” agreed Gregory. “I'd shake on it like a gentleman, but I'm a bit restricted in that department.”

“Did you lose your arm?” asked Mycroft in a horrified voice.

“No, just had it ripped up a bit. Shell blast. It's in a sling. I'm lucky.”

“Funny how the definition of luck has changed since the war began.” concluded Mycroft bitterly.

Gregory was about to reply when he saw the Sister approaching with a syringe on a tray.

“Cave,” hissed Gregory and Mycroft grinned like a schoolboy, pulling the blankets up to his chin and feigning sleep.

Gregory extended his arm for the injection and sighed as the Sister's warm palm rubbed the site to speed the drug into his bloodstream.

As his eyes grew heavy, he smiled. He might just have made a new comrade.

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their friendship deepens, Gregory discovers something shocking about Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of suicidal thoughts. Please be aware of this, even if you didn't read the tags.

FUTILITY

 

_ Two Weeks Later _

 

The RAMC Captain poked and prodded at Gregory’s newly-unbandaged wounds as Gregory tried not to wince too much.

 

“Excellent, Captain.” muttered the surgeon. “No sign of infection. No further need for the sling either. I'm sure you'll be delighted to have the use of both arms again.”

 

“Yes, but I can't grip anything with my right hand.” said Gregory, trying not to sound too panicked. The thought of never being able to paint or draw again was keeping him up at nights but he'd never had the nerve to ask about it till now.

 

The Captain looked grave. 

 

“That was quite a hit you took, Captain. You're lucky you didn't lose that arm. Once you're back in Blighty you can concentrate on building up your muscle tone again.”

 

“Blighty?”asked Gregory.

 

“As soon as there's a ship available all suitable wounded will be evacuated home.”

 

“There's going to be another big push, isn't there?” asked Gregory. “You need the beds.” He felt physically sick.

 

“Now Captain, you know I couldn't possibly comment. Good day.” replied the captain stiffly.

 

The VAD looked sympathetic as she packed the wound in Gregory’s thigh and rebandaged his arm. Gregory wriggled back into his pyjamas as they approached Mycroft's bed.

 

“Good morning, Major.”

 

“Who's that?” asked Mycroft sharply. 

 

“Captain Reynolds, Major. I've come to check on your wound.”

 

Mycroft sighed as the bandage around his head was unwrapped.

 

“I'm still blind, you idiot.” he said haughtily and Gregory grinned to himself. His new friend might be taciturn about his life before the war but closer acquaintance had revealed a razor-sharp wit and a tartness, like the best lemons, in what Mycroft considered meaningless conversation.

 

Gregory pretended not to listen as the surgeon continued with the examination which was hindered by Mycroft having no patience whatsoever that morning.

 

“Ow! You graceless buffoon, that hurt!” he exclaimed.

 

“Major, you had a significant head injury. It is vital I check that your wound is healing properly. Any kind of infection in that area could be fatal.” explained the doctor.

 

“I may have lost my sight but it does not mean I dropped the rest of my sense down the latrine, Captain. Get on with it.”

 

The rest of the examination was carried out in silence and the doctor and the VAD moved on to the next patient.

 

Gregory noticed that Mycroft looked pale under his freshly-applied bandages. Ignoring his own discomfort he got up and limped over to his friend's bed.

 

“It's Gregory.” he announced. “Are you okay because you're awfully pale.”

 

Mycroft turned his head to the sound of Gregory's voice.

 

“I will be fine, Gregory. Captain Reynolds may be an excellent surgeon but he lacks the gentle touch.”

 

“I suppose a carpenter doesn't consider the feelings of the wood after he's sawn it.” mused Gregory and was rewarded with a very sweet smile from Mycroft.

 

“Very poetic, Captain. What is the weather like today?”

 

“It is quite fine. Azure skies and mackerel clouds. Fancy sitting outside for a while?”

 

“Yes,” replied Mycroft. “That would be quite pleasant.”

 

Gregory helped his friend on with his slippers and dressing gown. Mycroft grasped his arm firmly as Gregory led him out of the ward into the fresh air. Mycroft tilted his head up and breathed deeply as Gregory guided him to a nearby bench.

 

“Back up a couple of steps. There. Now you can sit,” he instructed him.

 

“It is very sweet to be out in the fresh air,” sighed Mycroft.

 

“It is,” agreed Gregory, lighting cigarettes for them both and passing one to Mycroft who thanked him.

 

In the distance they could hear the crump of artillery shells as they landed. Even here there was no escaping the oratorio of death and Gregory couldn't help but notice Mycroft flinch at the sound of every impact. He cast around for a topic of conversation to distract him.

 

“Looks like we will be heading home soon. Back to Blighty.”

 

If Gregory thought that would cheer his friend up, he was mistaken. Mycroft looked almost stricken.

 

“What's wrong?” he asked. “Don't you want to go home?”

 

“Not like this!” exclaimed Mycroft.”I swore to myself that if I made it through this bloody war that I would return to Cambridge. All I want to do is go back to teaching, to read of poets who wrote about green, living things and died in their beds never even contemplating an atrocity like this. And I cannot do that. I never will again. Is it any wonder I pray to a god I no  longer believe in for the strength to kill myself?”

 

Gregory looked on, horrified, as Mycroft buried his face in his hands. The shuddering of his shoulders were the only sign of his silent weeping. 

 

Without a second thought Gregory put his good arm around his friend, Mycroft sat rigid for a second before slumping against him, his hot, gasping breath against Gregory's neck slowing as Gregory moved his hand in soothing circles on his back.

 

“F-f-forgive me, Gregory.” said Mycroft eventually as he sat up, resuming his former rigid stance.

 

“There is nothing to forgive.” replied Gregory. 

 

“Shameful display,” muttered Mycroft. “Not quite the done thing.”

 

Gregory hesitated then took Mycroft's hands in his and squeezed them gently.

 

“Listen to me. You have so much to live for. You might not be able to see anymore but that doesn't mean you can't appreciate the beauty of a symphony or touch an exquisite sculpture or indulge in fine wine. Besides, your family would miss you.”

 

“They have other sons.” replied Mycroft chillingly. “More socially acceptable sons; the estate manager with the titled wife and their four children and the vicar, engaged to the daughter of the local squire. I was always an oddity in the family, the confirmed bachelor, bookish and unsociable. My mother used to wonder if I were a changeling.”

 

Gregory was appalled but had the good sense not to verbalise it.

 

“Then I would miss you.” he ventured boldly. 

 

Mycroft looked surprised.

 

“That's extremely nice of you to say, Gregory but you barely know me.”

 

“So change that. You have told me more about yourself in the last five minutes than you've ever told anyone, I think. Why don't you carry on?”

 

“Very well. I am the middle child. The spare, as it is charmingly referred to. I attended Eton then Cambridge where I took my doctorate after deciding that the academic life was perfect for me. As a young don I cherished the opportunity to shape young minds, to help them become critical thinkers. I adore chamber music and Shakespeare, Milton and Mozart. Is that enough to be going on with?”

 

“I think so,” laughed Gregory. “We’re not much alike but I think that's what makes us such unlikely friends.”

 

“I think so as well. My mother would definitely approve of my friendship with an alumnus of the Slade.”

 

Mycroft pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

 

“Would you mind terribly guiding me back to bed? I have one of my headaches.”

 

“Yes, of course.” said Gregory. “Just grab my arm. There. Slowly does it.”

 

“You won't mention my thoughts on self-destruction to anyone, will you?” asked Mycroft anxiously as they made their way back to the ward.

 

“On one condition. Tell me the next time it starts to get bad.”

 

“I will.” promised Mycroft.

 

*

 

Gregory sat beside Mycroft's bed later that day reading Shakespeare to him. He noticed the arrival of the officer instantly.

 

“Do those buggers never take ‘piss off’ for a hint?” he muttered to Mycroft as the chaplain strode down the ward.

 

Gregory had to admit, he was one handsome padre. Tall and slim in his neatly tailored uniform with the clerical collar, his dark hair was slicked back and a pair of iridescent eyes looked curiously at Gregory as he came to a halt beside Mycroft's bed.

 

Before either of them could say a word Mycroft spoke.

 

“Hello, little brother. You really should change that appallingly scented hair cream. I knew a mile off it was you.”

 

The younger man smiled compassionately at his older sibling.

 

“Captain Gregory Lestrade, my brother the Reverend Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Very nice to meet you,” smiled Greg. “I'll leave you to talk.”

 

As he limped off to the latrines, Gregory smiled to himself. 

 

Mycroft's family did care. The proof was in the presence of the incredibly good-looking Sherlock Holmes.

 

Idly Gregory wondered what they were talking about.

 

TBC 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blighty was the common name for the UK during WW1. If you got a Blighty wound it probably meant you were going home for good.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conversations, neither of which are exactly comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains period typical homophobia. Sorry. It also contains a heterosexual Sherlock. Apologies.

~~~~

TWO CONVERSATIONS

Sherlock Holmes watched the man limp away then sat in the recently vacated chair beside his brother's bed, crossing one elegant leg over the other.

During his time in the trenches Sherlock had seen any number of atrocities; men with no limbs, men with half their faces blown off, others drowning in their own sputum due to the effects of mustard gas and he had held funeral services without number but the one thing that had shocked him rigid was getting the telegram from his mother with the news of Mycroft's injury. 

Disbelieving, Sherlock had got to the hospital as soon as he was able only now to be confronted with the truth.

Mycroft, his big brother. Adversary, confidante and genius was indeed blind.

The stark whiteness of the bandages enveloping the top half of Mycroft's had had the power to stop Sherlock in his tracks. He didn't want to speak lest his sudden surge of emotion betrayed him. Luckily, Mycroft spoke first. 

“The man who just left. Or I assume he left…”

“Yes?” croaked Sherlock.

“Can you describe him for me, little brother?”

Sherlock sensed more than curiosity in the question but decided to tease his brother a little.

“He’s just over five feet tall, appalling bad breath and a terrible squint. Hideously scarred as well.”

“Wretch,” laughed Mycroft affectionately. “ Tell the truth.”

“Very well. He’s tall, probably about the same height as me. Broad shoulders, injured on the right side, I think. His hair is grey already though he looks to be only a few years older than you, if that. Handsome, strong face, full mouth and brown eyes. Soft hands, no calluses. Doesn’t do manual work. Suggests a solicitor? Banker?”   
  
“Artist, brother mine.”

“I see. Why the interest? This ward is full of injured men, do you want me to describe all of them?”

“Don’t be absurd. Captain Lestrade has been somewhat of a comfort to me since I got here.He’s very kind, though he has no need to be.”

“I’m pleased someone is helping to take care of you. Mother and Father send their love and to tell you they will be praying for you. Mother says she’s written to you. Perhaps your new friend will read it to you.”

“Perhaps he will. Have you seen anything of Molly?” asked Mycroft.

“She’s in the hospital at Etaples,” said Sherlock, picking a thread off his trousers. “She works too hard and some of the things she’s seen will scar he for life.”

“None of us are who we were before, Sherlock. We’ve got the war to thank for that. She might find being a vicar's wife a little dull after all this.”

Mycroft smiled as he recalled the little girl with pigtails who had trailed after Sherlock when they were children at Musgrave Hall. She had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, one who Sherlock had been all too happy to win.

“She will get her chance to find out.” announced Sherlock. “ As soon as this madness is over, I’m going to marry her.”

“And so you should, I heartily approve.” said Mycroft.

“You should be able to travel soon, “ mused Sherlock. “Back home to Musgrave.”

“I suppose so. I’m not really much use to anyone as I am now. The rumour is we’re being sent to convalesce. Tell me, little brother, is Father still influential in the War Office?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I want you to ask him to do something for me. Ask him to make sure that Captain Lestrade and I are sent to the same place to convalesce.”

“Is he going to be your new Jonathan?” asked Sherlock accusingly.”None of us bought the ‘strictly platonic’ part of you two sharing rooms, you know.”

“I don’t care!” hissed Mycroft, his face suddenly a mask of anguish. “Jonathan is dead. And the only reason that I’m still alive is down to Gregory Lestrade. In his way he stopped me from killing myself. Those thoughts haven’t gone away, Sherlock, but as long as Gregory Lestrade is near me, thoughts are all they are. He’s my friend and I want him with me. Now can you manage that or not?”

Sherlock was horrified and deeply, deeply moved. If this Captain had indeed stopped Mycroft from committing the ultimate sin, he, Sherlock, would see to it that Mycroft did not lose his only friend.

“I’ll send a telegram to Father as soon as I get back,” he promised. “Is there anything else you need while you’re here?”

“Perhaps you could write to Stephens and ask him to send me some of my books. That way Gregory can have something other than Shakespeare to read to me.”

“It’s wonderful that he reads to you,” said Sherlock softly. “I imagine you miss that more than anything. I will pray for both of you.”

Mycroft shook his head, a rueful expression on his face.

“It’s absolutely incredible that after everything that’s happened, after this war you still believe in God. What kind of sick deity do you think would permit this kind of atrocity?”

Sherlock reached out and touched his brother’s hand.

“I’m not going to get into a theological debate with you now, Mycroft. Besides, my driver has just appeared at the ward door looking frantic.”

Mycroft grinned.

“I take it this is an unofficial visit?”

“Totally unsanctioned.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Thank you for coming anyway. It was good to hear your voice and your news.”

Sherlock stood up and shook his brother’s hand rather formally.

“I’ll telegraph Father immediately. And if I can get back up here before you get evacuated, I will.”

“Goodbye, brother mine.” he said as he strode off to where his driver was anxiously waiting.

*

Gregory made his way to the latrines. It was usually quiet at this time of day and he preferred to perform his ablutions unobserved. He had become quite adept at shaving with one hand, but this was the first time he had use of both and if he were to drop stuff, he would rather there was no one to witness his humiliation.

He cursed as he tried to grip the cutthroat with his newly-liberated right hand. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten. Switching hands, he scraped the whiskers off his chin, still wondering who the hollow cheeked gaunt eyed stranger in the mirror was. He splashed his face with cold water and toweled himself dry.

Gregory head him before he saw him, the hesitant tread and the deep wheeze from lungs ravaged by gas.

“Hello, Lucky.” said Lieutenant Jones.

“Don’t call me that,” muttered Gregory. He had acquired the nickname after being the only man in his section to survive. He didn’t think it was anything to be particularly proud of.

“Why not? Lucky Lestrade. It’s got a nice ring to it.” The expression on Jones’s face was anything but friendly or pleasant.

Gregory sighed as he packed up his shaving kit .

“I’m just going back to the ward,” he said, but Jones blocked his way.

“Look, Lucky. Saw you today with Major Holmes. Touching him. Really bad show, old man.”

“He was upset!” protested Gregory.

“We’re all fucking upset, Lucky. We’ve all been through hell, every one of us. You might want to be a bit more careful. The other fellows might start to think…”

“Think what?” Gregory was genuinely baffled.

“Look. I was at Cambridge the same time as Mycroft Holmes. There were rumours then, never proved of course, that he was a Wilde beast. Him and the Latin don that took rooms together when he was doing his doctorate. They were inseparable. So watch your arse, Lucky, unless you want it ploughed.”

Jones’s eyes took on a malicious sheen.

“Mind you, there were a few rumours floating around about you as well. An artist is no job for a proper man. And you never went whoring with the rest of the lads when you were on leave. Maybe getting ploughed is exactly what you want.”

“Get out of my way, “ snarled Gregory.

“Keep away from him unless you want to end up court-martialled!”

~~~~  
  


Gregory was furious. Half of him wanted to punch the living daylights out of Jones, the other half wanted to cry. His dear, sweet friend was an invert. More, an invert who had known proper love and had had the courage to grasp it with both hands.

Gregory was almost envious. His own dalliances had been brief, the circles he had moved in before the war had provided ample opportunity for passion, a pretty face and his endless charm, not  to mention being fluent in polari, but the very real risk of arrest and imprisonment for intercourse with someone of the same sex had not been conducive to romance. 

Gregory wandered around the hospital, oblivious to the ache in his leg, waiting for his anger to cool before returning to Mycroft because he knew Mycroft would sense how upset he was and demand to know why and there was no way Gregory was ready for that kind of conversation with eager ears everywhere.

Finally he admitted defeat and returned to the ward. Mycroft’s handsome brother was gone and his friend seemed to be sleeping, so Gregory crawled into his bed and shut his eyes.

Wilde Beast. Queer. Pervert. Invert. Shirt lifter.

Jones’s words, words he had known all his life whirled around in his head like wedding confetti.

Gregory turned in bed and looked over at the serene features of his friend.

Friend. In a world that Jones had described in a few words, what chance did they have to be anything else?

TBC

~~~~  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gregory makes a confession of his own, Mycroft is examined by a Captain Watson and they return to England, but will this be the end of their friendship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to Black_Dawn for the assistance with this chapter and to Egmon73 and Bourbon_Neat for being the world's best cheerleaders.
> 
> Apologies if I haven't replied to a comment. I promise I will get there eventually.

HOMEWARD BOUND

 

This chapter is for Black_Dawn without whom it would have a lot less colour. Thank you, lovely. 

  
  
  


Some days after his encounter with Lieutenant Jones, Gregory was sitting at the ward table staring at a blank sheet of paper and a stub of pencil. He had been there for some time, motionless, with both hands on the table. 

 

“Captain, are you going to sit there all day or are you actually going to draw something?” asked the cheerful ward orderly as he gathered up the teacups and other detritus from the table. Gregory just smiled, all too well aware of sweat trickling down his back even though it wasn't particularly warm.

 

The fist of his right hand closed on the pencil and he felt relief, it was the smallest thing he had managed to pick up since his sling had come off but as he tried to turn it in his hand, the pencil skittered away from him, coming to rest on the opposite side of the table.

 

“Fuck!” Gregory exclaimed, sweeping both pencil and paper onto the floor as a wave of hopelessness came over him. He screwed the knuckles of both hands into his eyes, determined that none of the other patients would see him cry.

 

Then he felt slim, cool fingers on the back of his neck.

 

“Gregory? What's wrong?”

 

It was Mycroft. His hand moved to Gregory's shoulder where he could feel the tension.

 

“Can't hold a pencil properly. Fucking useless. No good.” Gregory's reply was thick and disjointed.

 

“Come now, “ soothed Mycroft. “You are still healing. It's not quite time to despair.”

 

“But what if I never can?” said Gregory softly, giving voice to his darkest fear. He felt Mycroft's hand squeeze his shoulder.

 

“Give it more time, Gregory.” he murmured. “Time and patience.”

 

Gregory scrubbed at his eyes and stood up.

 

“You're right, of course. I'm expecting too much. That's me all over. Shall we go for a walk? Is your head hurting this morning?”

 

Mycroft smiled at his friend's concern for him and shook his head.

 

“I am fine today and a bit of a stroll might give me an appetite for dinner.”

 

“I doubt it,” grumbled Gregory. “Wait a moment while I get my stick.”

 

The walking stick was a new addition but Gregory couldn't argue with the fact that it made walking a lot easier for him.

 

The blue suits with the red ties were another new addition. Another uniform, just like the khaki but Gregory felt less of an invalid wearing something other than pyjamas even though they were Army issue and basically fitted where they touched.

 

Mycroft grasped Gregory's bicep lightly and they made their way outside.

 

“It feels quite warm today,” said Mycroft.

 

“It is,” agreed Gregory. “Not a cloud in the sky. Mind that great hole in the road,” he cautioned, guiding his friend round it.

 

They walked for a while until Gregory's thigh began to ache in earnest. Mycroft, feeling the pace beginning to flag, suggested they rest and they sat companionably on the nearest bench while Gregory described, in painstaking detail, everything he could see from their vantage point, Mycroft smiling at Gregory's sharp observations.

 

“Here's bother,” announced Gregory as he watched a staff car drive up to the opening in the fence that served as a gate.

 

“What is?” asked Mycroft.

 

“I'm not sure but there's an officer just got out of the car that's just pulled up, and he looks annoyed.”

 

“He's not a red cap, is he?”

 

“If he is, he's incognito.” 

 

“Describe him for me.”

 

“Medium height, stocky build, blond hair. Oh, Reynolds has just come out of his hut and is shaking his hand. Maybe they're related?”

 

“They may well be.”

 

Gregory felt Mycroft's hand steal into his and squeeze it gently.

 

“Why were you thinking he might be a red cap?” asked Gregory.

 

“Something Lieutenant Jones said to me yesterday while you were having your stitches removed. We were at Cambridge and rumours of my, er, preferences were floating around. Gregory, you have been of immeasurable comfort to me with your friendship and kindness. I feel it is only right that you know something about me that I rarely share with anyone. Then if you wish to discontinue our friendship, I will more than understand. Jones, being the misbegotten wretch that he is, will make sure everyone knows before long.”

 

Mycroft hesitated for he was reluctant to ruin this one source of comfort but was grateful that he would not see the look of horror and disgust on Gregory's face.

 

“He's a bastard.” agreed Gregory. “Mycroft, if you're about to tell me you are an invert, there's no need. Jones dropped that particular bomb some days ago.”

 

“Did he?” Mycroft was deeply shocked. “You never said.”

 

“ I didn't want to upset you. Besides, it was nice to find out I'm not the only one in the Army.”

 

“I don't believe it!” exclaimed Mycroft. “What about the nurses you flirt with?”

 

“Their days are even worse than ours. And they've usually got some overstarched harridan nagging them that their apron isn't pristine after a fourteen hour shift mopping up shit and piss and dealing with suppurating wounds. If I can cheer them up just a little bit, why wouldn't I? Besides, I'm an artist and I appreciate the human form in all its guises.”

 

“Oh,” was all Mycroft could think of to say. Gregory tightened his grip on Mycroft's hand.

 

“I prefer someone lean and hirsute to warm my bed.” Gregory whispered. “But that's a discussion for another time, my friend. That officer is heading this way, and he's got Reynolds with him.”

 

As unobtrusively as possible, Gregory let go of Mycroft's hand and slid a couple of inches along the bench.

 

The blond officer stopped beside the bench and saluted, a gesture completely lost on Mycroft.

 

“Major Holmes, my name is Captain Watson. I've come to examine you.” he announced.

 

“Major, Captain Watson is a brain injury specialist. Your elder brother thought you would benefit from his expertise.” added Captain Reynolds.

 

“Sherrinford has been meddling again.” sighed Mycroft. “Very well, Captain. If you would be so kind as to assist me back to the ward?”

 

Gregory watched as his friend was led away, hoping desperately that this Doctor Watson could do something,  _ anything  _ to help his friend.

 

*

 

Mycroft let himself be guided into a chair and heard the screens being pulled around him. He felt the bandages around his head being removed and the cotton pads being lifted from his eyes. He blinked purely out of reflex but all there was was rolling clouds of blackness.

 

“Major, I'm going to start my examination now. Just relax.” 

 

Mycroft felt strong, confident fingers exploring the almost-healed wound on the back of his head, then heard a bizarre clicking  sound, then a creaking sound as someone sat on his bed.

 

“It's strange,” said Captain Watson. “Your eyes appear to be perfectly healthy, Major but there must be severe damage to the optic nerve. If it's not too distressing, can you tell me exactly what happened when you got your injury?”

 

Mycroft swallowed deeply. He really didn't want to prod that particular memory but it seemed he had no choice.

 

“We had gone over the top,” he said, his voice scratchy with emotion. “They were waiting for us to do just that, of course. Some of my boys were mown down by machine gun fire, then there were the artillery shells falling like summer rain. I made sure the rest of them got clear then some bastard decided that adding phosphorus grenades would liven things up even more. There was an incandescent flash, I turned away from it...the next thing I knew I was awake in the CCS screaming that I couldn't see.”

 

Mycroft could feel his hands starting to shake so he locked them together in his lap.

 

“Thank you, Major.” said Captain Watson. “I am reliably informed that you will be returning to England within the next few days. I'm going to get in touch with my colleague, Dr Stamford. He is a leading man in the field of battle injuries and I would like him to examine you.”

 

“Why?” asked Mycroft sharply. 

 

“I don't want to get your hopes up, Major. Your eyes, as I have already said, are healthy. There has to be another reason for your blindness, and Stamford could be the man to discover the cause.”

 

“Look here, Doctor Watson. If this colleague of yours is some kind of Freudian fellow, I can assure you I have no need of those kind of services.”

 

“He is not. And no one is suggesting that you are faking this. If Stamford can help you, he will. Good day, Major. Captain Reynolds, may we speak in private?” concluded Captain Watson.

 

Mycroft heard the two men walk away from him and he began to tremble in earnest. He had just been given the cruellest gift of all. Hope.

 

Gregory returned some time after the others had left and the nurse had been to redress Mycroft's head. Mycroft was lying on his bed staring into space, his eyes finally uncovered.

 

Gregory let out a low whistle. He was seeing his friend's face fully for the first time. He would never have imagined Mycroft to be a redhead or for his eyes to be such an arresting shade of blue. Gregory swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

 

He wanted to talk about the consultation but Mycroft declined to talk about it, asking instead that Gregory read  _ Henry V  _ to him as a distraction.

 

*

 

The trucks pulled into the hospital compound belching diesel fumes everywhere while Mycroft and Gregory waited, kitbags at their feet, to be assigned a place on one of them.

 

“Walking wounded over here,” announced a weary RSM. Gregory guided Mycroft to the waiting truck and helped him scramble inside, hefting their bags in one-handed then climbed in himself. Once the truck was full it set off giving Gregory a glimpse of the outside world for the first time in what felt like months.

 

“Horrible,” he muttered. “You know,” he continued to Mycroft and the half a dozen others in close proximity, “this was a beautiful country once upon a time. Green fields, sleepy villages and a real sense of timelessness. It'll take forever for the land to recover.”

 

“Were you here often?” enquired Mycroft.

 

“I travelled all over Europe when I was younger. France, Switzerland, even Germany. Incredible countries, even though I spent most of my time in Italy

“

 

Gregory smiled at the memories of painting in Tuscany, drinking wine in the palazzos in Rome, sketching the Duomo in Florence and a hair-raising trip see to Vesuvius in all its smouldering glory.

 

He told all this to Mycroft, painting word pictures that made his friend smile. The recitation took them all the way along roads that meandered through the French countryside, stopping and starting till they finally arrived at the port of Caen where they were made to disembark.

 

Mycroft clung to Gregory’s arm; the noise and confusion was disorientating enough for the soldiers who could see, Gregory’s voice a reassuring rumble in his ear as he guided them to where they needed to be, steering Mycroft up the gangplank  and sitting him down on one of the wooden seats assigned to them. Mycroft was deeply glad of his friend's presence, trying not to imagine how much of an ordeal the journey would have been without him. He felt Gregory sit beside him, heard the click of his lighter and accepted the proffered cigarette.

 

“We're on our way, “ announced Gregory. Mycroft could feel the thrum of the ship's engines under his feet and felt only a deep thankfulness that he was leaving the charnel house of France behind him.

 

“Did you travel much before the war?” Gregory asked him.

 

“I never left England.” Mycroft confessed. “Too wrapped up in my studies, then later my teaching and my undergraduates. You have no idea how much I regret that now.”

 

“I'm surprised,” admitted Gregory. “I thought you might have travelled a bit. You would love Italy, you know. I was in Turin for the World Expo in 1911. It was absolutely incredible. All those countries, the exhibits, they even had da Vinci’s notebook.I queued for hours to see that. Phenomenal stuff, such a talented man. And Turin is a beautiful city, astonishingly pretty architecture. You could spend days just walking the streets and looking. And the whole thing is offset by the Alps...sorry, I'm rambling again.”

 

Mycroft chuckled softly. 

 

“You have such wonderful enthusiasm for everything, Gregory.  I find it incredibly refreshing.”

 

“That's a relief,” said Gregory. “Please tell me to shut up if I start annoying you. Sit tight, I'll see if I can find us a brew.”

 

As Gregory limped off in search of tea, Mycroft rested his head on the hard wood behind him and, in spite of the chatter of all the others crammed on the boat beside him, fell asleep.

 

Gregory smiled fondly when he returned and left Mycroft to sleep, making his way to the ship's rail and resting his arms on it.

 

The Channel was as smooth as a millpond under the late summer sky, its water pewter-grey and sparkling. Two sleek destroyers ranged alongside the hospital ship as escort, soon the outlines of Portsmouth would become visible. He decided to return to Mycroft and enjoy the last bit of their time together.

 

In truth, he had dreaded being parted from his friend, as they would surely be once they docked at Portsmouth.

 

_ At least I will be able to touch him one last time. And I can always dream of what might have been if circumstances had been different. _

 

Gregory went back and sat beside Mycroft, gently shaking his shoulder.

 

“Better wake up, Major.” he muttered. “We’re nearly there.”

 

Disembarkation seemed to take forever, but neither Gregory or Mycroft were in any hurry. Mycroft gripped Gregory's arm tightly as he set foot back on English soil for the first time in years.

 

“Name, rank, number?” asked the corporal with the list. They told him.

 

“That's convenient, “ he huffed. “Malton Grange for both of you. Third lorry on the left over there,” he pointed. “And you'll get there when you get there. Next!”

 

“Charming fellow,” said Mycroft. “I suppose we had better get our lift.”

 

“Yes,” replied Gregory, trying and failing to hide the world's biggest smile. “Let's.”

  
  


TBC 

  
  



	5. Malton Grange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wilds of Northumberland Gregory and Mycroft discover more than tranquility and old friends.

MALTON GRANGE.

 

To everyone who has liked and commented so far, thank you. This is where the rating gets cranked up a smidge…

  
  


Almost twelve hours after leaving Portsmouth, the Army wagon containing Gregory, Mycroft and two other fellow officers turned into the gates of Malton Grange.

 

It was pitch dark as they wound their way up the gravel drive and, as the lorry wheezed its way round a bend in the road, Gregory caught his first glimpse of where he would be staying for the foreseeable future.

 

It was an imposing country manor by the outline, warm lights were twinkling in the downstairs windows and Gregory got the impression of vast grounds that he could not yet see. He nudged Mycroft.

 

“We're finally here. Just as well, “ he grumbled. “My arse is full of splinters.”

 

Mycroft smiled wanly; Gregory thought he looked pale and unwell but reasoned that the journey must have been double the ordeal for his friend. Multiple train changes, endless waiting and finally another journey in yet another wagon.

 

The wagon came to a halt outside the entrance where a number of people with lanterns were waiting. Gregory recognised a couple of VAD’s and what might possibly be a doctor.

 

The tailgate dropped and Gregory clambered out, stiff and sore from being inactive for so long. He extended both hands to Mycroft who jumped down after him, clinging tightly to Gregory to prevent himself from falling.

 

“Stand there,” Gregory instructed him. “Just while I help the other two.”

 

He helped his fellow passengers off, which was thanked with a curt nod from both.

 

The staff swooped down on them, chivvying them through the front doors, along a corridor hung with portraits and hunting trophies and into what Gregory supposed had been a ballroom in happier times.

 

Now, instead of beautiful couples dancing, there were rows of camp beds filled with sleeping soldiers and it was lit with lanterns, not with the magnificent chandelier that still hung overhead.

 

One of the VAD’s showed Gregory and Mycroft to their beds. Gregory was pleased to see they were side by side with only a locker between them.

 

“Your kitbags will be brought in shortly,” she announced in a no-nonsense voice. “I suggest you go to bed. It is rather late.”

 

Gregory wasn't really paying attention as Mycroft was still deathly pale and Gregory could feel the tension in the grip on his arm.

 

“Headache?” he murmured.

 

“A bad one,” admitted Mycroft.

 

“You need to rest,” said Gregory. “Can you find some aspirin for the Major? He’s in pain.” That was to the VAD.

 

“All these patients have head injuries, Captain.” she informed him. “I'll make sure he gets something.”

 

“Thank you, Gregory.” 

 

“I’d get into bed if i were you,” said Gregory. “It’s just to your right there and there are pyjamas on the pillow. I'm right next to you, so if you need anything, you don't have to shout too loudly.”

 

“That's wonderful,” sighed Mycroft.

 

The VAD returned with some tablets for Mycroft which he swallowed with the proffered glass of water then, pyjama-clad, climbed under the prickly Army-issue blankets. Within minutes, he was asleep, his face almost as white as the pillow it rested on.

 

Gregory didn't feel tired any more. The ballroom seemed to be hung with paintings that he couldn't see in the gloom but itched to explore and the huge curtained windows hinted at wide open spaces just beyond. His arm and thigh ached, but it was manageable. There was no need to disturb anyone. As his eyes grew heavy in spite of his curiosity he recalled the words of the VAD.

 

_ All these patients have head injuries, Captain. _

 

He didn't, so why was he here?

 

Gregory fell asleep before he could think of a good reason.

 

*

 

Breakfast the next day was a revelation. Thick, creamy porridge, crusty white bread, bacon and eggs for those who wanted them and genuine coffee. Gregory indulged himself to the hilt, he couldn't remember the last time he ate so well. Mycroft sat across the table from him, smiling as he sipped his coffee.

 

To Gregory's relief, Mycroft looked much better that morning, there was some colour in his face and he seemed more relaxed. The rest must have done him good.

 

“It seems as though Mrs Hudson is still the cook here,” said Mycroft. “She is a culinary genius.”

 

“You've been here before?” asked Gregory. “When?”

 

“I’ve been coming here since I was a child, and I always used to come here to Northumberland for the shooting,” replied Mycroft. “My parents are friends with the owners. Once upon a time I think they cherished hope that I would marry the Earl’s elder daughter but she married Sherrinford instead. It's a beautiful part of the country, Gregory. Wild and rugged. You could spend days wandering in the hills. Good hunting country as well, though I expect all the horses were requisitioned for the war, poor things. You must get out and explore the grounds if they will let you. There's a maze and a folly beside the lake.”

 

“Sounds incredible” agreed Gregory. “You can be my official guide and I'll be able to tell you if anything's changed.”

 

They grinned conspiratorially at the thought of escaping, however briefly, from the confines of the ward.

 

As Mycroft lay down for another nap, Gregory admired the paintings that he hadn't been able to see the night before. He gazed avidly at a Turner, a Reynolds, a Gainsborough and what he thought was a Constable. The pastoral theme continued with works by artists he didn't recognise and he was completely enthralled, entranced by the beautiful use of colour and the skill it had taken to produce such wonderful canvases. 

 

He swore then that, come what may, he would paint again. 

 

Sunlight streamed in from where the curtains had been drawn back and Gregory limped over. He saw he had been right about the view; a rolling velvety lawn stretched as far as the eye could see down to what looked like positively primeval forest and he was desperate to get out and explore it, chafing at the confinement of the convalescent ward.

 

When Mycroft woke up refreshed, they made their escape. Around the back of the house were greenhouses and empty stables and yet more velvety lawn that Gregory's walking stick occasionally stuck in. 

 

This led to the lake which twinkled in the late summer sunshine. 

 

“There's what looks like a Roman temple over there,” remarked Gregory. “Just beside the lake.”

 

“That's the folly,” Mycroft told him. “Sherlock and I used to play in there as children. And we'd go swimming in the lake if it was hot. Simple childhood pleasures. It seems like a hundred years ago.”

 

In the distance, Gregory heard a woman calling for them.

 

“Caught red-handed,” he grinned. “We're in trouble.”

 

Mycroft looked stern.

 

“Don't be ridiculous, Gregory. We're supposed to be here to convalesce. How are we supposed to do that stuck inside that ghastly ballroom?”

 

They made their way back slowly as Gregory could not rush. The matron, judging by her scarlet cape, was waiting with her arms folded.     

 

“Major! I have been looking everywhere for you. Captain, I thought you would have had more sense.”

 

“ Sorry.” said Gregory,  completely unrepentant, while Mycroft's expression was disgruntled.

 

“You must inform the staff if you intend to leave the building. Is that clear?”

 

“Crystal, Matron.” There were shards of ice in Mycroft's reply.

 

“See that you do in future.” And she stormed off with her nose in the air.

 

“Tyrant!” hissed Mycroft. “Gregory, do you think you could help me find the kitchens?”

 

“Yes, of course. You can't be hungry, surely? “

 

Mycroft smiled and squeezed his arm where he held it.

 

“It's time I reacquainted myself with an old friend.”

 

Eventually Gregory managed to navigate his way through the labyrinth of corridors and stairs to where the smell of roasting meat and baking pastry made his mouth water. The kitchen staff were so intent on their work that they paid no attention to the interlopers in their midst. All except one.

 

“I do not believe it!” screeched a tiny frail woman who was sat beside the kitchen fire. She got up and ran to Mycroft, throwing her arms around him.

 

“I would have known you anywhere, Mikey!” she exclaimed. Mycroft touched the top of her head, a gentle expression on his face.

 

“Hello, Mrs Hudson. I was delighted to find you were still here.”

 

The woman drew back slightly from Mycroft and frowned.

 

“You're a patient here. What did they do to you, my handsome boy?”

 

“I'm blind, Mrs H. That's what they did to me.”

 

She started to cry and Mycroft gently shushed her.

 

“No tears.” he insisted. “I've already cried an ocean of them. But where are my manners? Martha Hudson, this is Captain Gregory Lestrade.”

 

Mrs Hudson's wiped her eyes as she surveyed Gregory who took her hand and kissed it.

 

“It's an honour to meet you, Mrs Hudson.” he said.

 

“Ooh, he's a handsome devil! And a proper charmer. I bet you're a proper ladies man.” cooed Mrs Hudson approvingly.

 

“Something like that,” muttered Gregory.

 

“Captain Lestrade is my friend. I just wanted him to know there was a safe haven for us if it gets too much up there.”

 

“You boys are welcome any time” agreed Mrs Hudson. “But I'd better get on. Come and have tea with me soon and tell me about the rest of the family.”

 

“I will,” Mycroft promised and she hugged him again before going back to work.

 

“She seems very nice,” said Gregory as they made their way back upstairs.

 

“She's wonderful,” smiled Mycroft. “And excellent company for a podgy teenager who wanted nothing more than to escape from his parents and his annoying siblings. She taught me how to cook and how to bake and listened to me as I tried to make sense of the world. I intend to spend as much time with her as I can.”

 

“And so you should,” agreed Gregory, thinking that time spent with such a sweet soul would do his friend the power of good.

 

Later that day, Gregory sat on his bed with a tennis ball in his affected hand, attempting to squeeze it. Sweat beaded on his brow as he grasped it, his fingers slow to obey him but gradually it compressed and he released it.

 

“Very good, Captain. Keep trying.” The therapist was encouraging but not intrusive and Gregory had seen him working on similar lines with other patients. Mycroft sat beside him as he continued.

 

“I've decided we should go for a swim tomorrow.” he announced.

 

“What, in the lake?” asked Gregory incredulously.

 

“Of course. It's been an age since I felt water like that on my skin.”

 

“I can't swim.” Gregory confessed.

 

Mycroft looked surprised but quickly rallied.

 

“Then you can watch. And read aloud to me so I will know where the shore is.”

 

Unseen, Mycroft held his hand briefly.  

 

“Your voice will always bring me back to safety, Gregory.” he said softly.

 

“Well, if you put it like that,” smiled Gregory. “How could I refuse?”

 

*

 

The next day was warm without a cloud in the sky and the two friends escaped as soon as was decent.

 

Mycroft carried a pair of blankets and his book of Shakespeare’s plays. They stopped by the edge of the lake and Gregory spread the blankets out and sat with a sigh of relief. No one could see them there, they might be the only two people in the world.

 

He watched, mesmerised, as Mycroft undressed in front of him, stripping down to his drawers and walking slowly towards the water.

 

“Keep in a straight line, “ Gregory advised him. “You'll soon find the edge.”

 

“Start reading,” Mycroft advised and then disappeared with a splash.

 

“Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this son of York.” recited Gregory, loudly.

 

He was just coming to the end of the speech when Mycroft emerged.

 

Gregory stared. He couldn't help the moan of longing bursting from his lips as Mycroft walked out, water running in rivulets over his alabaster skin, his body hair blazing a fiery trail down to what his clinging-wet drawers couldn't conceal. He stopped and tilted his head to one side.

 

“Gregory? Did you abandon me?”

 

“Sorry. Er…”

 

“Never mind. It's freezing in there!” Mycroft exclaimed.

 

Gregory stood up and wrapped the spare blanket around his friend then encouraged him to sit beside him which Mycroft did, wriggling out of his wet underwear which made him over balance.

 

Gregory caught him and held him close, Mycroft's shoulders against his chest. Gregory was fascinated by the smattering  of freckles on the back of Mycroft's neck, resisting the urge to press his lips to them. His arousal was becoming painful. Surely Mycroft could feel it?

 

“Gregory…” Mycroft began.

 

“I'm sorry,” said Gregory.

 

“Don't be. I'm glad you desire me. It means I won't need to suffer the torment of unrequited lust. You wonderful man, I adore you for your incredible voice and the kindness in everything you do. I don't have to see you to know you're beautiful. But this is a discussion for somewhere more private, don't you agree?”

 

“Yes,” whispered Gregory, happiness and relief surging through him.

 

He yielded to temptation and kissed the back of Mycroft's neck, eliciting a groan of pure pleasure from Mycroft.

 

“You'd better stop that,” he whispered. “Or we will both be up on a charge of gross indecency. There's got to be a way of getting you alone, my love. I'll think of something.”

 

“You're the cleverest man I know,”  replied Gregory, standing up and feeling grateful that his trousers were so baggy. “I'm sure you will.”

 

TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. The Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a telegram arrives for Mycroft, both he and Gregory might regret their restraint.

THE LABYRINTH

  
  
  


What they had started that afternoon by the lake hung between them all that night and well into the next day; a glorious sense of anticipation tinged with longing.

 

Gregory worked hard at his hand exercises, determined now not only to hold just a paintbrush. He watched Mycroft make an attempt to circumnavigate the ward with the aid of a long white cane smiling a crooked smile that Gregory knew hid a degree of discomfort.

 

The trainer, a young NCO, walked beside Mycroft, muttering instructions in a low voice. His dear friend did exceptionally well around the familiar area. Much more practice and he wouldn't need a guide.

 

That thought made Gregory squeeze the ball so hard it shot out of his hand and bounced across the polished floor.

 

“Sorry! Sorry!” he apologised as he limped after it.

 

“Careful with that bloody thing, Lestrade.” grumbled a Major Gregory had taken to playing whist with on the odd evening. The Major sported an eyepatch and an empty sleeve on the left side, pinned to his jacket.

 

Deciding he had done enough for one day Gregory quitted the ex- ballroom and wandered outside but kept within shouting distance. No point in antagonizing the staff unnecessarily but it was a beautiful day and was far too good to waste.

 

At teatime he sat beside Mycroft.

 

“You’re doing well,” he remarked. “With the cane.”

 

“If only the instructor were a little more inspiring.” sighed Mycroft. “The man sounds like a talking flute. I'd rather listen to you bully me all day, Gregory. You have such a sonorous voice. It's deeply pleasant.”

 

The major who Gregory had almost hit with the ball earlier harrumped. 

 

“Something you wish to say, Sowerby?”  enquired Mycroft.

 

“No, of course not.” However the man looked positively uncomfortable. “You fellows...you seem closer than brothers.”

 

Gregory squirmed in his seat but Mycroft didn't even hesitate.

 

“Captain Lestrade is my eyes, Sowerby. Without him, I am as helpless as a newborn. Can you even begin to comprehend what that means to me? And speaking as someone with two brothers of my own, I'd rather have family I chose for myself.”

 

“Sorry, Holmes. Wasn't thinking. Didn't mean to imply there was any funny business going on.”

 

“Just as well,” retorted Mycroft. 

 

Sowerby groped around for a change of subject.

 

“Either of you chaps been in the maze yet? I tried it the other day. Got horribly lost.”

 

“The maze!” exclaimed Mycroft. “I had completely forgotten about that. We were never allowed near it as children. Naturally we couldn't keep away, it had a certain dark glamour like all forbidden places. Fiendishly complicated as I recall.”

 

Sowerby looked gratified and the talk turned to more general matters.

 

Later Gregory said to Mycroft.

 

“You hadn't forgotten about the maze at all, had you?”

 

Mycroft gave him an impish smile that made Gregory's heart turn over.

 

“Of course not. In fact I think it would be the perfect place for you and I to be alone. Well away from prying eyes. You can hear anyone coming for ages in there so we wouldn't be taken by surprise.”

 

“Sounds perfect.” said Gregory. “Bearing in mind I'll be the one doing the navigating, how complicated is it? I don't want them sending out a search party.”

 

Mycroft laughed, his face alight with glee.

 

“Sherlock worked it out in around five minutes the first time he went there and he was always the slow little brother. Keep right on the way in and vice versa on the way out. Trust me, Gregory. We won't get lost.”

 

“Then I shall look forward to tomorrow very much.” replied Gregory.

 

The next morning, breakfast seemed to last an eternity. Gregory concentrated on his hand exercises, willing his grip to tighten up. There was miniscule improvement, which made him feel quite accomplished but the thought of being alone with Mycroft at last was what was really making him smile. Mycroft himself was in the grounds with the long cane trainer, negotiating his way round a prepared obstacle course. Some ripe oaths issuing from that direction made it clear that, just maybe, Mycroft wasn't entirely focused on the job in hand.

 

Eventually they were free.

 

“We're going to explore the maze,” Mycroft announced to the VAD on duty. “I need the long cane practice and Captain Lestrade has most generously offered to assist me.”

 

“Very well, Major. Be back by curfew.”

 

Trying to look nonchalant, the two men escaped into the grounds and away from the house.

 

The maze was a fair way away from the house and Gregory had to pause a couple of times to let the ache in his leg subside but before long, the two of them stood at the entrance.

 

The walls of the maze were twice as high as Gregory and were overgrown.

 

“All the gardeners will have been called up,” insisted Mycroft when he mentioned it. “And what staff are left will only have time to do the basics. Now remember, my dearest, keep right.” 

 

Gregory obeyed, the tips of his fingers brushing the leafy box as Mycroft clung to his other arm. Gregory had anticipated, given the size of the thing, that it would take ages to reach the centre but they reached it in a surprisingly short time.

 

“We made it.”  he announced. He guided Mycroft to the overgrown centre. “There's a bench here.” he stated, sounding surprised.

 

“Those who actually made it to the centre often liked to sit and gloat. Or get their breath back.” teased Mycroft.

 

“It looks fairly comfortable,” said a dubious Gregory. “Shall we sit?”

 

At Mycroft's nod he guided him to the bench where they sat. Gregory looked at his dear friend, the one who he hoped would become something more, as Mycroft reached for his hands.

 

“Gregory, I have had you described to me by a few people. May I touch you to form my own conclusions?”

 

“Of course,” replied Gregory, thickly. “I am yours to explore as much as you want.”

 

Mycroft smiled and leaned closer. He raised his right hand and ran it delicately through Gregory's hair, then both hands caressed his face, the tips of Mycroft's fingers skimming his lips provoked a light kiss which made Mycroft smile. The light touch on Gregory's neck was almost his undoing, he never dreamed he would respond so strongly to such a butterfly ghosting but it didn't end there, Mycroft's fingers danced lightly over his shoulders, down his arms and came to rest on his chest.

 

“They did not do you justice, my dearest. You are quite beautiful.” announced Mycroft. “I would very much like to kiss you.”

 

“Oh, yes.” groaned Gregory, leaning in to capture Mycroft's mouth with his.

 

The gossamer touch of Gregory's mouth made Mycroft's lips part and his arms slide round Gregory's neck as he breathed in the taste of him; tobacco smoke, second-day linen and desire.

 

He did not resist as Gregory pulled him onto his lap and deepened the kiss, their tongues gently exploring the undiscovered delights of the other, warm breath and muted sounds of pleasure from them both.   

 

Gregory held Mycroft close to him when the kiss broke, Mycroft's head nuzzled at the crook of Gregory's neck.

 

“How I've longed to do that,” Mycroft confessed. “And I yearn for so much more.”

 

“Whatever you want, my love.” murmured Gregory.

 

“I could happily spend my days here with you in my arms,” sighed Mycroft. “I thought I had lost the habit of romance but it appears not.”

 

“It's a habit I never gained,” admitted Gregory, holding Mycroft closer to him and relishing the closeness. He wanted him badly but the wanting was tempered with a real need for this tender moment to continue for a very long time yet.

 

“You deserve so much better than a quick rut on a rough bench.” said Gregory.

 

“I have Mrs Hudson working on that,” admitted Mycroft. “I do want you so very much, but I would rather it were on clean linen behind a lockable door. If you can bear it for a little longer…”

 

Gregory held him even tighter.

 

“You will be worth waiting for,” he said sincerely, touched that Mycroft would make such an effort for him.

 

A noise alerted them to the presence of someone else in the maze.

 

“We had best get back,” said Gregory as he extended his arm.“Hold tight, love.”

 

Mycroft smiled at the endearment as Gregory led them out into the grounds without a false step.

 

*

 

Next morning as Gregory pummelled his tennis ball he saw the VAD approach Mycroft with a brown envelope in her hand. Telegram, thought Gregory, then felt fear like he hadn't known in a long time. Mycroft's brother was still in France. Surely not…

 

He watched as the telegram was read to Mycroft who didn't react. So not bad news then. Then Mycroft stood up abruptly and made his way over to Gregory.

 

“I need to speak with you, Gregory.”    

 

Gregory followed him outside to the relative privacy of the grounds.

 

“I'm being sent to London.” announced Mycroft.

 

“Why?”

 

“Dr Stamford wishes me to be examined at Bart’s. You know the Army, Gregory. I must go wherever I'm sent. I leave this afternoon.”

 

“But…”

 

Mycroft looked stricken in the face of Gregory's despair.

 

“It's doubly cruel considering what has happened between us. I wish we had been bolder, Gregory.”

 

“So do I. Mycroft, I don't know how long they'll keep me here but whatever happens, remember what I feel for you. And when this madness is over, promise me you will come and find me in London. I'll be in Wisteria Gardens in Islington. Promise me!”

 

“I promise,” said Mycroft as tears trickled slowly down his cheeks. 

 

TBC


	7. Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory finds comfort in an unexpected place while Mycroft meets Dr Stamford and Sherrinford arrives to take his little brother home to Musgrave Hall.

  
  
  


Gregory could not bring himself to pass up the chance of saying an official goodbye. He walked outside with Mycroft to where the lorry was waiting and helped him chuck his stuff in the back.

 

As they were accompanied by the VAD on duty, the only thing they could do was shake hands rather formally.

 

“Look after yourself,” said Gregory, his voice hoarse with what had to be left unsaid. “Let's hope this Dr Stamford can help you.”

 

“I hope so too. Thank you for everything, Gregory. I do hope we will meet again soon.” replied Mycroft.

 

“Count on it.”

 

He helped Mycroft into the back of the wagon and stood at the main door watching as it drove away, taking his heart with it.

 

“He will get the very best of care,” the VAD reassured him. Gregory tried to smile but failed miserably.

 

“Dr Stamford really is the finest in his field,” she continued. “I know you and Major Holmes were close, you'll miss him, I think.”

 

Gregory looked at her, her blue/grey eyes showed nothing but compassion and he realised she wasn't disapproving.

 

“Yes, I will miss him. And I do hope they look after him properly where he's going.”

 

“Bart’s is an excellent hospital,” she said in a soft Northumbrian accent. “And I know they've had plenty of practice with all sorts since the war started. I must get back on duty. Will you be alright, Captain?”

 

“I will be fine,” replied Gregory, a little gruffly. He didn't think he'd ever be fine again.

 

One thing was for sure. He couldn't go back to the ward and see the empty bed, surely made up with fresh linen, waiting for the next poor bastard who had received a Blighty wound to arrive.

 

He wandered off with no actual direction in mind, passing works of art that would have normally left him speechless without a second glance.

 

Inevitably, he ended up in the kitchen. 

 

Gregory’s timing was fortuitous; it was the interval between meals and Mrs Hudson was holding court. When she saw him, she beckoned him over and poured him a cup of tea from an enormous ceramic teapot. The other staff looked at him curiously before finishing their own tea and moving off in ones and twos to attend to their duties.

 

“Where’s Mikey?” asked Mrs Hudson, her eyes bright with curiosity.

 

“He's gone,” Gregory replied, horrified to hear the catch in his voice. “To London. There's a specialist there that might be able to help him.”

 

“Well, there are all these newfangled things like x-rays and suchlike.” she comforted him. “If it's something they can see, perhaps it's something they can fix.”

 

“Perhaps. I just hope they don't build his hopes up to knock them down again. He won't be able to cope with a disappointment like that.” Gregory shook his head, trying to clear it of disturbing thoughts. 

 

“You really care for him, don't you? I'm pleased.”

 

She smiled at Gregory's look of consternation.

 

“Don't look like that, even servants have eyes. He's a very sweet boy. The whole family are incandescently brilliant, but that kind of genius is cold and hard. He never got affection from his parents, for they had their own problems and there was too big an age gap between the brothers for any of them to be particularly close. I had heard that he was sweet on someone at Cambridge. Just rumours, nothing you could make a legal case of, but I was happy for him for he, of all of them, was most deserving of love.”

 

“He died.” Gregory interrupted her. “At Vimy Ridge. Mycroft told me. His name was Jonathan.”

 

Mrs Hudson's eyes filled and she scowled.

 

“This bloody war! It's taken the best and the brightest of our young men and for what?”

 

“I don't honestly know.” replied Gregory with a shrug. “I thought I did once, but now there is very little that makes sense any more. I had hoped that with America finally joining in we might be in with a chance of winning but even if we do, I'm not even sure what we would win.”

 

Mrs Hudson patted his hand. 

 

“I don't think you're the only one with that opinion, Captain Lestrade. And I need to get on with the dinner but you are most welcome here any time. Never mind what they say upstairs.”

 

“Thank you.” said Gregory sincerely.

 

He returned to the ward, dragging his feet. In the end, what else could he do?

 

*

 

Mycroft was thoroughly disgruntled by the time he reached his destination. He had been roughly handled from pillar to post and craved nothing more than Gregory's guiding arm and his gentle voice painting word pictures for him as to what was happening and where they were.

 

By the smell of things, boiled cabbage and disinfectant, the hard chair onto which he had unceremoniously dumped and told to wait was indeed in a hospital. Knowing the Army’s ability to foul things up, Mycroft wouldn't have been at all surprised to find himself in Bedlam. 

 

After what seemed to him to be hours, he heard footsteps approach and stop.

 

“Major Holmes?” asked a deep Northern voice.

 

“Possibly,” replied Mycroft curtly. “Depends on who's asking.”

 

“I'm Doctor Michael Stamford, Major. I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”

 

Mycroft inclined his head, not quite ready to forgive yet when the doctor barked at someone who was passing.

 

“You! Escort Major Holmes to the ward. Have a care, you lummox, he's blind!”

 

“I will be along shortly to assess you, Major.” said Stamford as Mycroft allowed himself to be led away. 

 

It wasn't a long journey and Mycroft soon heard his escort speak.

 

“Major Holmes, Sister Robertson.”

 

“Thank you. Major, will you allow me to lead you to your room?”

 

Her voice was kind with a hint of Irish in it and her grip was gentle as she guided him a few paces further on.

 

“This will be yours for the duration of your stay, Major. The bed is right in front of you and the bathroom is the door to your right. There is a locker by the bedside with an ashtray on it as well as a water jug and glass. If you put your hands out…”

 

Mycroft obeyed and felt the outline of a wingback seat.

 

“That is your chair. Your belongings will be brought to you in due course. If you need anything, please ask. Doctor Stamford will be along shortly.”

 

“Thank you, Sister.” Mycroft replied politely and heard her leave with a rustle of starched skirts.

 

Suddenly exhausted with another headache looming he sat in the chair and dozed off.

 

He had no idea how long he had slept but a rough hand on his shoulder quickly roused him. He flinched at the discomfort he felt in his eyes and heard a satisfied grunt.

 

“Sorry to disturb you, Major.”

 

Stamford’s voice sounding quite smug.

 

“Apologies for dropping off.” yawned Mycroft.

 

“Perfectly understandable. Now, if you're up to it, I'd like to begin your assessment. Let's start with a few questions.”

 

Mycroft recounted the battle where he had lost his sight and the aftermath. He did not react so violently to these memories, already they felt like they had happened to someone else.

 

Doctor Stamford examined his now-healed head wound, muttering to himself, the scratch of his fountain pen the only other sound in the room. 

 

Mycroft was taken to another place, far enough away to merit a wheelchair, where he was made to remove his identity discs and lie down in a room full of noisy machinery before being returned to his room.

 

Some time later, Doctor Stamford rejoined him.

 

“I have some news for you, Major. Some very good, some not so good. Which would you prefer to hear first?”

 

“We're not children, Doctor Stamford. Tell me.”

 

Mycroft could feel his heart sinking. 

 

“Very well. You're not blind.”

 

“Don't be absurd! Do you think I'm shamming?” yelled Mycroft.

 

“Hear me out, Major. I've examined you thoroughly, looked at the x-rays and consulted with a couple of my peers. You have something called cortical blindness. When you were hit by shrapnel you sustained a much more severe head injury than anyone realised. There was bleeding into your brain and swelling which obstructed the optic nerves in your eyes. This kind of trauma does heal itself but it can take months and even then it's uncertain how much of your sight you will regain but you will be able to see again.”

 

“My god…”

 

“The healing process has already started.” he went on. “You flinched away when I woke you earlier, didn't you?”

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“I was shining a torch in.your eyes and they reacted to the light. Your pupils are becoming responsive, Major. My best guess is it won’t be long now.”

 

Michael Stamford was a deeply compassionate physician and he was moved by the expression of wild hope on Mycroft's face.

 

“And the not so good news?” asked Mycroft.

 

“The brain damage is going to cause you some problems. You're already experiencing headaches. They will be less severe but they will probably plague you for the rest of your life. Fatigue, short-term memory problems. I believe you're a master at Cambridge?”

 

“I was. None of that matters anymore, Doctor. If I get my sight back I can cope with anything else.” 

 

“I am going to recommend your immediate discharge on medical grounds and I advise rest and recuperation somewhere quiet.”

 

“That will not be a problem,” announced a new voice.

 

“Sherrinford! How long have you been listening at the keyhole?” asked Mycroft exasperatedly.

 

Doctor Stamford looked at the new arrival. There was no doubt that the two men were brothers. Same build and colouring with identical opaline eyes except the new man's hair was brown instead of the Major’s red, ruthlessly tamed and he sported a large, drooping moustache. 

 

“I never could resist making an entrance, brother. You know that.”

 

“How on earth did you know I was here?” asked Mycroft.

 

“Father.” replied Sherrinford simply.

 

Sherrinford Holmes shook Doctor Stamford's hand warmly.

 

“Sherrinford Holmes. I must say, Doctor, this is excellent news. He will recover?”

 

“Almost certainly. However he will have some degree of incapacity as I was just explaining. And I would very much like to keep monitoring him on an outpatient basis. He merely needs rest and quiet for now. The acute trauma is well on the way to resolving itself.”

 

“He's sitting right here,” interrupted Mycroft peevishly. 

 

“Forgive me, Major. If your brother agrees, you may leave as soon as you like. Now I will leave you to talk. I will write to Doctor Watson and tell him his suspicions were right.”

 

Mycroft heard a creak that signified Sherrinford sitting on the bed. Mycroft lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.

 

“This is marvellous news, Mycroft. I'll send a telegram to Musgrave. Get your old room aired out. Mother and Father will be delighted to have you back.”

 

Mycroft exhaled a large stream of smoke.

 

“No doubt. How is Alicia? And the children?”

 

“Thriving,” replied Sherrinford with a smile. “The twins went up to Eton in September and the girls are growing up so quickly. They'll be ready to come out before I know it.”

 

“Incredible,” smiled Mycroft. “It only seems like yesterday that they were all in petticoats. And you, brother? Are you still receiving white feathers?”

 

Sherrinford chuckled as he lit a cigar, adding to the fug in the room.

 

“If I'd kept them all I'd have enough to stuff a mattress. It doesn't upset me any more. If we are to have a land fit for heroes when this war is over, then someone will have to feed them.”

 

Mycroft had admired his brother's stance at refusing to join up when war broke out, preferring to stay and manage the family estates to ensure maximum food production. Eventually Sherrinford would be forgiven, Mycroft was sure. It took a unique kind of courage to withstand the kind of hatred his big brother had been subjected to.

 

“I suppose I had better go. Lots to organise. I'll come back tomorrow, take you home.”

 

“Yes. May I ask a small favour before you do?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I'd like you to write a letter for me. I promised a friend I would keep in touch. He's still at Malton Grange.”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“My writing case is in the drawer, I believe.”

 

Mycroft heard his brother move, a drawer opened then closed.

 

“Fire away,” said Sherrinford.

 

Mycroft found it incredibly difficult to  dictate. He wanted to speak of his love and longing for Gregory but there was no hope of getting a letter like that past the censors. Instead he stuck to the facts. He realised it sounded impossibly formal but hoped that Gregory would understand.

 

Sherrinford shook his hand, promising both to return the next day and to post the letter.

 

Mycroft sat, smiling to himself. Warm memories of Gregory in his head and the very real possibility that he would be actually able to  _ see _ him broadened his smile and warmed his heart.

 

Soon they would be together. Musgrave Hall was a very accepting home. It had had to be.

 

“Soon, my darling.” Mycroft whispered.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cortical blindness is real and generally follows the path which I have described. Recovery can indeed take months.
> 
> The white feathers received by Sherrinford were sent to those deemed cowards for refusing to fight.


	8. Billet Doux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory continues to recuperate at Malton Grange, his time lightened by the friendship of Mrs Hudson and letters from Mycroft, but it can't last. One of his worst fears is about to come true.

BILLET DOUX

  
  
  


“Letter for you, Captain.”

 

Gregory was sitting at the table with an old periodical in front of him but he wasn't really concentrating. Mycroft had been gone for a whole week now and Gregory couldn't find interest in anything.

 

“Thank you,” he replied courteously to the orderly, taking the proffered envelope from him.

 

Gregory wondered who it was from. His parents were dead and he had no siblings. His only correspondent was his agent who had been managing Gregory's affairs since he joined up, but the writing was different.

 

Intrigued, he slit it open and started to read.

 

_ Dear Gregory _

 

_ My brother Sherrinford is writing this to my dictation, I can only hope that he is diligent in his transcription. _

 

_ I have some good news for you, my friend. Doctor Stamford, genius that he is, informs me that I have what is called cortical blindness. It is apparently caused by swelling and bleeding in the brain but it is only temporary. In time I will regain my sight. _

 

_ I will be returning tomorrow to my family’s home, Musgrave Hall in Surrey. If you wish to write to me then that is where your letter will find me.  _

 

_ I miss you, my dear friend. I have not forgotten the promise I made when we parted and I will make good on it once I know you have returned to London. _

 

_ Remember the maze and what we were to each other in there. _

 

_ Your affectionate friend _

 

_ Mycroft. _

  
  
  


Gregory read and re-read the letter, moved beyond words that Mycroft was going to get his miracle after all.

 

Gregory kissed the envelope then folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket next to his heart.

 

He would write to Mycroft tonight. 

 

The VAD who had helped him see Mycroft off happened to be on duty when Gregory threw the pen across the table in a rage.

 

“Captain! What on earth are you doing?”

 

“I still can't hold the bloody thing tightly enough!” he exclaimed, rage and frustration smothering his usual courtesy.

 

“To do what?” she asked.

 

“I'm trying to write a letter but my grip just isn't strong enough. Perhaps if it were chunkier. I've used thick pastels before but that's not exactly ideal for letters.”

 

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and scowled at the offending pen.

 

“I've got an idea,” said the nurse. “May I?”

 

“Help yourself.” said Gregory defeatedly.

 

She returned within minutes holding the pen wrapped in a thick bandage and secured with a couple of safety pins.

 

“Try that,” she insisted, handing it to him.

 

Gingerly he gripped it and smiled as his grip held. He pulled some  fresh writing paper close and laboriously wrote the first few words. Miraculously the bandage held and he grinned at the nurse as he penned another line.

 

“Sister, I could honestly kiss you.” he said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

 

“I think I might, judging by the huge grin on your face,” she teased. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

 

“I was. Hoping to be again if I can manage to get my hand to work properly.”

 

“Do you work with charcoal?”

 

“Sometimes. I prefer oils and pencils but that won’t be feasible for a while.” he sighed.”Why do you ask?”

 

“I know where I can get my hands on some nice thick stuff for you. It might help you to get back into the swing of things. Nothing underhand, I assure you.” she continued, forestalling his protest. “My family have worked this land for generations and my father is the forester here. I’ll have a word with him.”

 

“Bless you,” said Gregory.”That would mean so much to me.”

 

“You’d better finish your letter if you want to catch the post tonight,” she warned him. 

 

Gregory was still smiling as he bent his head to the task.

 

It was only a few lines voicing his delight at Mycroft’s news and his promise to let him know the minute he returned to London, but his hand ached afterwards. He was very proud of himself, however, and placed the note with the others that were to be sent that day.

 

He sneaked off to the kitchens where Mrs Hudson was waiting for him with the teapot full and a plate of freshly buttered tea cakes which were Gregory’s favourite and were so exquisite he requested another one.

 

“I had a letter from Mycroft,” he told her as he wiped his lips on his hankie. “He’s not permanently blind after all. He’s going to get his sight back.”

  
  


“Oh, that’s marvellous!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson, thrilled to bits. “Will he go back to Cambridge, do you think?”

 

“I don’t know,” confessed Gregory. “He’s going back to Musgrave Hall to recuperate.”

 

Mrs Hudson’s lips thinned at the mention of Musgrave.

 

“That might not be the best place for him,” she said.

 

“Why?”

 

“I’m not really one to gossip about my betters, dear, but if you’re going to get involved with the Holmes’s, it’s best if someone forewarns you.”

 

“Warns me about what?” laughed Gregory.

 

“Lord Siger is an alcoholic. There was some big family scandal and he turned to drink. Lady Violet is addicted to laudanum, probably because her husband is an alcoholic and she gave birth to three of the most brilliant men living. That would try anyone’s nerves. I believe Sherrinford has moved them to the Dower House where they can self-destruct in peace.”

 

“That’s Mycroft’s elder brother. He wrote the letter that I got.”

 

“And Sherlock will have his parish when he gets back from the war.”

 

“I’ve met him, “ admitted Gregory, remembering the handsome chaplain with Mycroft’s eyes.

 

“He’s a wonderful boy as well.The brothers all look out for each other. They have to as they get no support from their parents. And I’ve probably said enough, dear. Would you like some more tea?”

 

It was warm and cosy in the kitchen and Gregory was reluctant to go back to the ward so he held out his cup in anticipation.

 

*

 

Two weeks later, Gregory was making enormous progress with the charcoal. He lacked the ability yet for fine detail, so he worked in sweeping broad strokes. It was so different to his usual style, but he liked it. An urgent request to his agent had furnished him with enough paper for his projects and he was so engrossed, he barely noticed the time passing.

 

By the end of October, the days were crisp and cold and the trees were shedding their summer weight. Gregory now spent most of his time outdoors sketching everything in sight.The Northumbrian countryside was some of the most beautiful he had ever seen. His favourites he kept; the rest he sent to Mycroft who was still waiting for his miracle.

 

Their correspondence was cautiously tender, Gregory was never sure whose hand the next missive would be written in, he supposed that Mycroft enlisted the help of anyone who had a spare moment, but Gregory could read Mycroft's frustration with his current situation and his longing for a reconciliation quite clearly in the words that were not said.

 

Gregory shivered and decided to pack up for the rest of the morning. Winter was definitely on its way and he spared a thought for the poor bastards still fighting across the Channel. He wouldn't miss shivering in the trenches where frostbite was the least of your worries.

 

Back on the ward he detected a bustle and predicted that the doctor was about to do his rounds. He came around once a week, the theory being that none of the officers were acutely ill and did not need him to be there every day. Gregory found him pompous and overbearing and he spoke to just about everyone as if they were imbeciles.

 

Gregory was no expert but he was quite sure that people with head injuries shouldn't be subjected to being bawled at and accused of malingering. He had even heard the man use the word ‘conchie' about a young lieutenant whose nerves were so badly shattered it was unlikely he'd ever function normally again. Gregory supposed that all the decent medics were overseas while they were left with this bantam with a power complex.

 

Sure enough, he strode onto the ward with his jaw set and his pigeon chest inflated. He paused beside Gregory's bed.

 

“Captain. I hear you're managing to draw again, is that correct?”

 

“Well, yes. In a fashion.”

 

“How is your gait?”

 

“I still limp but I only really need a stick for long distances or uneven ground.”

 

“I suspected as much. I'm discharging you from this facility. You will return to London and attend a Medical Board. They will determine officially that you're fit to return to active duty.” The doctor’s eyes shone with malice.

 

Gregory felt sick. He couldn't go back. Not to that hell-hole. Yet what choice did he have? He was many things but a coward was not one of them so he stared the doctor down and merely said.

 

“Better get packing then, hadn't I?”

 

Saying goodbye to Mrs Hudson was painful as she hugged him and wept; saying goodbye to Nurse Marshall, his charcoal provider and ally, was somehow worse. 

 

She bit her lip as she escorted Gregory to the waiting wagon.

 

“I'll miss you, Captain.” she said. “Can I give you a piece of advice? Whatever happens from now on, find Major Holmes. Be with him. Tell him of your feelings for him. If they send you back you don't want to leave anything undone or unsaid.”

 

“I will,” he promised her. “Just make sure you look after yourself.”

 

“Goodbye...Gregory.”

 

There was a lump in his throat as he climbed aboard the wagon and it drove off leaving Malton Grange behind.

 

Gregory was thoroughly sick of travelling by the time he reached London but was horrified when told that his Medical Board was scheduled for an hour's time and he was made to wait in a queue with a group of other soldiers, all with shadows behind their eyes. They had all served and seen what human beings could do to each other and they had had enough. 

 

When it was Gregory's turn, the examination was cursory at best. He could walk, could hold a gun and was in possession of all his limbs.

 

“Fit for active service, Captain Lestrade.” said the medic as he stamped Gregory's papers. “There is a desperate need for experienced officers at the Front.”

 

Gregory said nothing. What was the point when his death warrant had just been signed.

 

“One week's embarkation leave then report to Dover Barracks 9a.m. on November twelfth.”

 

Gregory saluted the top of the man's head and marched out.

 

He stood, dazed, in the street, ignoring passers-by that jostled him and gave him strange looks before gathering his scattered wits. He headed to the nearest Post Office and sent a telegram then flagged down a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Islington where he hoped his agent had been as good as his word and kept the house in.livable condition.

 

*

 

At breakfast the next morning, the footman appeared at Sherrinford’s elbow.

 

“Excuse me, sir. A telegram for Mr Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft turned his head towards his big brother.

 

“Better read it out, old man.” he said. “Must be urgent.”

 

Sherrinford slit the envelope with his butter knife and opened the telegram out.

 

“BEING RETURNED TO ACTIVE DUTY ON 12TH NOVEMBER. IN LONDON NOW. I MUST SEE YOU. LESTRADE.”

 

Sherrinford looked sympathetically at Mycroft who had turned paper white.

 

“Ring for Stevens,” said Mycroft in a dead voice. “I must travel to London immediately.”

 

Wordlessly, Sherrinford did.

 

TBC


	9. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days before he is due to return to the war, Gregory is reunited with Mycroft. It's a steamy reconciliation.

RECONCILIATION 

  
  
  


Gregory sighed and took another swig from the whisky bottle. He'd finally given up in trying to hit the glass.

 

He had returned home to find everything in order; the house aired, the fireplaces swept and laid and his studio exactly as he had left it.

 

One phone call to Fortnum’s had rectified the lack of food. The wine and whisky had been an afterthought but after a day spent with his solicitor, Gregory thought he was due a drink.

 

How do you decide how to parcel up your assets when you have no loved ones left? It had taken hours to thrash out the disposal  of his house and investments but he had included a bequest to Sister Marshall so she could realize her dream of training as a physician, and one for Mrs Hudson for all her kindnesses.

 

What to leave Mycroft had been much more problematic. He didn't need Gregory's money, he needed Gregory, so that was what was bequeathed to him. Gregory's heart; his paintings, his incomplete works and everything else in his studio so that when he was able, he would be able to appreciate them and remember him.

 

For Gregory was under no illusions. He wouldn't be coming back this time.

 

With the meticulous care of the truly pissed, he placed what was left of the whisky in the table and staggered off to bed.

 

Four days to go.

 

His hangover the next morning was monumental but after he had vomited twice and dry-swallowed some aspirin he started to feel human again.

 

He was in his studio, black with charcoal, when there was a knock at the door.

 

Standing there was a middle-aged man with a remarkable moustache who touched his cap as he spoke.

 

“Forgive the interruption, sir. I'm looking for a Gregory Lestrade.”

 

“That's me. How can I help you? I'm not taking commissions at present but…”

 

“ Thank Gawd.” interrupted the man. “I've been knocking at every door in the street. Got a blind gent in the back of my cab asked me to find the right house. Wait here, sir, and I'll fetch him.”

 

“Mycroft…” breathed Gregory, the blood starting to pound in his veins as the cabbie returned with Mycroft on his arm.

 

“There y’are, sir.” said the cabbie to Mycroft. “Told you I'd find it.”

 

“You have been magnificent,” smiled Mycroft, and Gregory caught a glimpse of gold as Mycroft slipped the cabbie a tip.

 

“Bless you, sir.” said the cabbie, wide-eyed at the amount of money in his palm. “Your friend's waiting for yer.”

 

“Up here, Mycroft.” said Gregory. “ Two steps up to the front door.”

 

Mycroft's white cane led him to where Gregory was standing, grinning, and Gregory led him all the way inside, helped him off with his coat and gloves and hung his hat on the hatstand.

 

“I can't believe you're here!” exclaimed Gregory.

 

“I came as soon as I could after I got your telegram. I couldn't let you go back without…”

 

He never completed the sentence as Gregory grabbed him and kissed him. Mycroft’s cane clattered to the floor as his arms went around Gregory, holding him tightly, relaxing into the kiss, his lips parting to allow Gregory’s tongue free access, a sigh of combined pleasure and relief escaping him.

 

Then their hands were busy on each other; collar studs and cufflinks flying and they undressed each other, Gregory leading him to the sofa and laying him down, pausing only to appreciate the beauty of a naked, needy Mycroft under him before claiming his mouth again, sliding his hand down between their bodies to caress Mycroft’s erection.

 

Mycroft’s hand joined his, the touch of those gentle fingers were almost enough to finish Gregory completely.

 

“I won’t last,” Gregory confessed.

 

“Nor will I,” admitted Mycroft with a gasp as Gregory increased the speed of his strokes. “Come for me, Gregory. I want to feel you come all over me.”

 

Those words were Gregory’s undoing, his pulse thundering in his ears as he climaxed. Seconds later, Mycroft followed him leaving them both sticky, sweat-soaked and breathless. 

 

When he was capable of thought again, Gregory reached up and pulled a blanket over both of them and lay back down with Mycroft in his arms.

 

“I love you, “ he confessed. “I wanted to tell you that for ages but never had the opportunity. And I have to tell you that now before I go back.”

 

“I love you also, my dearest. I’ve been utterly miserable since we parted. Every day I hoped for a letter to tell me you were back in London. Then the telegram came. I can’t believe they think you’re fit to serve again.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” said Gregory firmly. “All that matters now is that you’re here.”

 

“I took a suite of rooms at The Dorchester,” admitted Mycroft. “I had no idea..I mean, you never said..about your living arrangements. I thought I may have parents or a landlady to contend with before you and I could be alone.”

 

Gregory laughed and kissed the curve of Mycroft’s jaw.

 

“You’re quite the schemer, Mycroft Holmes. No, this is my house. And we’re quite alone. There’s a char who comes in once a week to do the rough work, but I couldn’t abide having someone living in. You never know who you can trust these days, what with my previous lifestyle.So if you’d rather stay here and check out of the hotel…”

 

The invitation was there and Mycroft didn’t hesitate.

 

“That will be perfect. I shall leave you briefly to collect my things.” His hand slid down Gregory’s thigh. “But not yet.”

 

Gregory smiled, trailing his fingers through the sprigs of red hair on Mycroft’s chest.

 

“Oh, I completely agree. Absolutely no hurry.”

 

Some hours later, Mycroft was installed at Wisteria Lane complete with baggage.

 

“How is your recovery progressing?” enquired Gregory as they sipped tea together in bed.”I should have asked earlier, but we sort of got carried away.”

 

Mycroft’s smile was positively wicked.

 

“Yes, we did, rather. I don’t think it will be long, my darling. I can differentiate between light and shade and when I wake in the mornings, there is such a strobe of colour. It’s quite dazzling.” Then his expression grew sad. “I only wish I could see you, Gregory.”

 

Gregory took the tea cup from him and placed it on the bedside table.

 

“You can feel me, darling. Learn me again through touch. Through taste. I’m all yours.”

 

“And I love you for it,” smiled Mycroft, drawing him close.

 

*

 

The next few days passed in a dream. Gregory suspected that it was the closest thing he would ever experience to a honeymoon with Mycroft.

 

They ate in the finest restaurants, attended the ballet and the theatre and took long, slow walks around London.At night, they drank wine in front of the fire before making love in Gregory’s bed. No one raised an eyebrow at Gregory being so physically close to Mycroft in public. After all, the man had been wounded in the service of his country. It was only right that he had his friend to guide him. 

 

On their last night together, they dined at the Ritz, quaffing champagne as if they would never make any more, and flirting shamelessly over the dinner table.

 

They went home and Gregory led Mycroft upstairs.. On fresh sheets they made love until they were both completely spent. It was then that Gregory surprised himself by crying.

 

“I don’t want to leave you,” he sobbed. Mycroft held him close, his own eyes awash with tears.

 

“You’re not gone yet,” he soothed. “We still have tomorrow.”

 

That made Gregory sob even harder.

 

The next morning, as Gregory put off packing anything, they drank sweet tea in their dressing gowns and Mycroft talked about inconsequential things.

 

It was then they heard it.

 

“Are those...the church bells?” asked Mycroft.

 

“Can’t be,” said Gregory. “They won’t be rung until...Fuck! Mycroft, make yourself decent. We need to get outside.”

 

The pair swiftly dressed and Mycroft took Gregory’s hand as they went outside. Wisteria Lane was full of his neighbours and tradesmen, all shouting over the sound of the pealing of the church bells.

 

Gregory grapsed the arm of his next door neighbour.

 

“What’s happening, Mr Jones?” he asked.

 

“Haven’t you heard, lad? The war’s over. They signed an armistice this morning.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. We’re off to Downing Street to see old Lloyd George. It’s over. It’s finally over. We won.”

  
  


Gregory couldn’t take it in. His war was over. Mycroft was frantically wiping his eyes.

 

“You realise what this means?” he asked.

 

“I won’t have to go back. Thank God.” said Gregory fervently.”Now I have a future.”

 

Ignoring everyone around him, he took both of Mycroft’s hands in his. Now they might have a future together.

 

TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WW1 officially ended on November11th at 11am 1918. Forgive the boys for having other things to think of than world events.


	10. The Fourth Horseman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory is finally out of the Army and on his way to Musgrave Hall for Sherlock's engagement party. Mycroft can't wait to see him again but there is an unseen guest at the party. The Fourth Horseman.

THE FOURTH HORSEMAN

 

_ War, Death, Famine...who is the fourth?  _

  
  


To his chagrin Gregory had to report to Dover Barracks after all but he had time at least to bade Mycroft the tenderest of farewells before Mycroft returned to Musgrave Hall. 

 

He had promised to write and, even as the train pulled into the station, Gregory was hatching plans for how they would share their life together. 

 

This was what he craved above all things, to spend the rest of his days with Mycroft at his side, but he realised that this would be no easy task, societal and legal niceties aside.

 

They hadn't discussed the future, the fact that they might actually  _ have  _ one now was still too new a fact to contemplate but the dark side of Gregory's psyche kept reminding him that Mycroft would regain his sight soon.

 

If he could see again then there was nothing to stop him returning to Cambridge and picking up the reins of his pre-war life.

 

A life in which there was no place for Gregory.

 

War had brought them together, he only hoped that peace would not drive them apart.

 

The young sergeant at the barracks saluted Gregory as he reported for duty.

 

“I'm not entirely sure what they'll do with you, Captain.” he admitted. “Everything's at sixes and sevens at the moment. Might I suggest you go to the Officer's Mess and I'll send someone once I find out.”

 

“Of course,” replied Gregory. “Take your time Sergeant.”

 

“Sir.” A salute, then he bent his head to his paperwork again.

 

*

 

At dinner in the dining room of Musgrave Hall, Sherlock was outlining the plan for his engagement party.

 

“Do you think it appropriate?” asked his father. Lord Siger had indulged rather heavily in the robust wines that had accompanied each course and it had turned him verbose. “Your mother and I never had anything like that.”

 

“Of course, Father.” said Sherlock patiently.”It can be a double celebration. The end of the war and the start of my new life with the woman I love.”

 

“Oh, very well. I’ll let you sort out who will attend. I don’t know. Women with the vote, engagement parties. Gels showing their ankles. Country’s gone to the dogs.”

 

Sherrinford winked at Sherlock over the dinner table.

 

“Will you invite your friend, Mycroft?” asked Lady Violet timidly.”The one you went to visit in London?”  Mycroft turned his head to the sound of his mother’s voice.

 

“I would very much like to,” he admitted. “In his last letter he said he was hoping to be demobbed any day now.”

 

There was a very loud tut from Lord Siger at this. Lady Violet looked startled and gestured for Lady Alicia and herself to retire and leave the men to it.

 

“Do you have something you wish to say, Father?” enquired Mycroft.

 

“Not in front of your brothers.” muttered Lord Siger.

 

“In that case, “ said Sherrinford,”Sherlock and I will pass on the port. Come on, little brother. Let’s see if Mother has left any of those cakes you’re so fond of.”

 

Father and son were left in the dining room. Lord Siger gestured to the servants to leave them alone and they obeyed with alacrity.

 

“Right, my boy. Everyone’s gone. I must insist that you stop this foolishness with this...this  _ person _ .”

 

“He has a name, Father.”

 

“No name that I have ever come across.Look, son. I know what you are. We all do.”

 

“And what is that, Father?” asked Mycroft. He could feel another headache brewing and wanted to be done with this conversation.

 

“A sodomite. You are not a stupid man, Mycroft. You know what will happen if you and this man get caught. Prison would finish you, son. It’s much easier with people of one’s one type but the people who stray out of their age group or class are the ones who get found out. Found out and blackmailed. You are of age, I cannot forbid you to do anything but..”

 

His father stopped speaking and Mycroft head an audible gulp as his father swallowed what sounded like something very bitter.

 

“For you mother’s sake, I don’t want you to end up like Rudy!”

 

Mycroft was taken aback.

 

“Uncle Rudy? He died of pneumonia, didn’t he? That’s what you always told us growing up. We all liked him.” Mycroft’s tone was accusing. He had loved his Uncle Rudy who always had time for the three Holmes boys and was a perennial source of sweets and toys and tales of derring-do, whenever Nanny would let him in the nursery.

 

“It was kinder if you thought that,” sighed Lord Siger. “He hanged himself, my boy. He was just like you. He loved other men. Then he loved the wrong one, some penniless musician who, after what happened to Oscar Wilde, decided to blackmail him. My poor brother couldn’t face the disgrace,or prison with hard labour, or the scandal that would attach itself to the family, so he did away with himself. That is what I want to prevent happening to you.”

 

“Gregory is no starving artist, Father. He’s very well-to-do, he’s an alumnus of the Slade and he’s painted for royalty. He would never betray me like that. I am sorry for what happened to Uncle Rudy but I am not him.”

 

“No, you are a far stronger character that he ever was,” agreed Lord Siger. “Very well. Invite this Gregory to the party and we can get a sense of his worth. But be discreet, Mycroft. You know how servants gossip.”

 

“We will be the soul of secrecy, Father.” Mycroft promised.

 

“Good. Good servants are hard to find these days, what with this damnable influenza that seems to be cutting a swathe through the populace.”

 

“Sherrinford told me about that. They’re calling it Spanish Flu. Let’s hope it doesn’t find its way here.”

 

“I sincerely hope not, what with the children, and you’re not as fit as you should be. Anyway, let’s rejoin the others before your mother and I have to take our leave.”

 

*

 

Gregory was finally cut loose from the Army at the beginning of December, much to his relief. He had spent the past few weeks drowning in pink gin and listening to the most awful crusty officers bemoaning the end of the war and the loss of chance of promotion.

 

He had been home for a couple of days when the postman brought him a letter. Gregory didn’t recognise the thin, slanting writing so he opened it curiously.

 

_ My darling Gregory _

 

_ Today I finally got the miracle you and I have been waiting for. I awoke two days ago and I could see. I have been so terrified of falling asleep in case I wake up blind again that I have been driving my entire family quite mad. They are, of course, thrilled for me as I am and I hope you are as well, my dearest love. _

 

_ Now I can write to you without having to dictate to anyone else and you have no idea how liberating that feels. I can finally express just how much I love you and miss you, grudging every single second that you are not here with me. I miss waking up in your arms, your gentle touch and the way you would kiss me breathless. _

 

_ That is not the only reason for writing. My brother Sherlock is having an engagement party here at Musgrave and you are cordially invited for the weekend to help him and Molly celebrate their forthcoming union. It is this weekend coming. There will be the usual country pursuits as well as the actual party itself. _

 

_ I do hope you can make it. Nothing would make me happier that to finally see your beautiful face for the first time and to take you to bed in the light. _

 

_ Do let me know as soon as possible if you will attend. _

 

_ Yours eternally _

 

_ Mycroft _

 

_ Xxxx _

 

There were tears in Gregory’s eyes as he folded the letter and placed it in his safe with all the others Mycroft had sent him. He could not have been happier for his beloved, and he would most certainly be attending the party. He wrote a reply expressing his delight in Mycroft’s news and to confirm his attendance.

 

He then went to his wardrobe to ensure that he had the appropriate clothes for a posh do in the country.

 

To his horror, nothing fitted any more, he had lost so much weight and broadened considerably while he was in France. He bundled everything he needed altered and took a cab to Savile Row.

 

His tailor was delighted to see him and wrung his hand.

 

“So many if my customers never came home, Mr Lestrade. It's a real tonic to see you.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Hart. I've got a house party coming up next weekend. How soon can you do the alterations?”

 

Mr Hart sorted through the clothes. 

 

“Four days should do it. Now, sir. Slip off your jacket and I'll do your measurements.”

 

Gregory stood like a mannequin while the tailor measured every inch of him before he was satisfied.

 

“Come back on Thursday, sir. It'll be ready then.” Then he sneezed violently.

 

“Bless you.”

 

“I think I must be coming down with something,” admitted Mr Hart.”Till Thursday.”

 

*

 

In the drawing room at Musgrave Hall on the Friday evening, Mycroft stood next to the fireplace toying with a glass of whisky while chatting absentmindedly to Molly. Gregory was due to arrive at any time and Mycroft was a little nervous.

 

It was bizarre that he knew every inch of Gregory's body almost as well as his own and would know his voice in a crowd of thousands but might pass him on the street because he had never seen him.

 

The door to the drawing room opened and Jacobs the butler stood there.

 

“Mr Lestrade, sir.” 

 

Jacobs stood aside to admit a tall, handsome man with silver hair and a walking stick.

 

“Gregory!” breathed Mycroft exultantly and thrust his glass at a startled Molly before practically running to his lover's side.

 

“Hello, Mycroft.” said Gregory, smiling at the awestruck expression on the other man’s face. He realised that Mycroft was literally seeing him for the first time and liked what he saw.

 

They shook hands, Mycroft holding on much longer than was strictly necessary, his smile wide and his eyes crinkled with delight.

 

“You're more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.” whispered Mycroft. And he was. Impeccably dressed and freshly barbered and such a look of deep affection in those thick-lashed chocolate brown eyes.

 

“Everyone's staring,” remarked Gregory. “Why don't you introduce me?”

 

“Of course. Where are my manners?”

 

Gregory was introduced to everyone, shook the hands of Mycroft's brothers and kissed the hands of their ladies. Everyone seemed favourably impressed.

 

Over dinner that night he chatted to Sherlock's fianceé about France and how she was adjusting to civilian life again. She was a warm and lovely woman and Gregory was sure he had an ally in her. He teased her about the perils of marriage which made her giggle and told her how much he was looking forward to the party the next day.

 

When he retired to his room, Gregory had a headache. He blamed the journey in a stuffy train and quite a bit more wine than he was used to at dinner.

 

He put on a nightshirt and crawled under the blankets, awaiting Mycroft. A light tap on his bedroom door made him leap up and open it. Mycroft stepped inside while Gregory locked the door and drew him into a tender embrace.

 

“I've missed you so.” admitted Mycroft when they stopped kissing long enough to speak. “And now you're here and you're beautiful. And I can see all of you. Leave the lamp on, darling. I don't want to miss a second of this.”

 

Nightwear was quickly discarded and the blankets pushed aside as Mycroft straddled Gregory, feasting his eyes on his naked arousal. Mycroft's fingertips lightly brushed the scar tissue on Gregory's arm and thigh, evoking a needy moan from his lover.

 

Mycroft whimpered softly as Gregory's hands cupped his arse.

 

“I need you inside me,” he whispered, his hand busy on Gregory’s cock. 

 

Slick fingers prepared him and he eased down, slowly, feeling the burn, adjusting as Gregory lay still under him until Gregory was completely engulfed. 

 

Mycroft kept his eyes wide open relishing the expressions on Gregory's face as they made love, the way his warm hands held him throughout. Mycroft couldn't hold back any longer and climaxed, feeling Gregory follow him in seconds.

 

Mycroft kissed him very tenderly.

 

“I love you so much,” he murmured.

 

“I love you too,” said Gregory, kissing him on the jaw.

 

“When this weekend is over, darling. I'd like to talk to you.” said Mycroft. “About you and me

“

 

“Without you there is no me,” smiled Gregory and kissed him again. “Yes, we should talk, darling. And we will.”

 

“I must get back.” said Mycroft regretfully. “Mustn’t fall asleep here.”

 

“Too bad,” smiled Gregory, watching as Mycroft put his pyjamas and dressing gown back on. “See you at breakfast.”

 

Mycroft blew him a kiss and left as silently as he had come.

  
  


Gregory felt light-headed and warm all the next day but played it down, blaming the weather. 

 

As he dressed for the party he realised he was more feverish than he thought. He took some aspirin from his travelling case and swallowed them before heading downstairs.

 

The party was a great success; the bride-to-be was radiant as she clung to the arm of her future husband who looked very dashing in clerical grey.

 

Gregory met Mycroft's parents who, he surmised ,had already decided to despise him yet both were warm and welcoming. He wished his head didn't feel as if it were stuffed with cotton as he utterly failed to say anything witty or interesting.

 

Mycroft was chatting to the local doctor. He had barely seen Gregory all day but it was probably for the best to be discreet when he heard a resounding crash from outside.

 

Brittle laughter filled the room and comments about a fellow not being able to hold his drink when Sherrinford shouted his name.

 

There, collapsed in a spreading puddle of champagne, was Gregory. Mycroft knelt beside him and touched his face.

 

“He's burning up!” he exclaimed. “Fetch Doctor Fletcher. And give him some air.”

 

Everyone backed away, embarrassed as the doctor reached them.

 

Dr Fletcher looked incongruous kneeling in champagne in his elegant evening suit but his expression as he completed his examination struck fear into Mycroft's heart.

 

“I'm sorry, Mr Holmes,” he said. “It's the Spanish Influenza.”

 

“No…” gasped Mycroft.

 

“Everyone, go home.” announced the doctor, firm authority in his voice. “This man is highly infectious.”

 

He looked at Mycroft again.

 

“The next few days will be critical if he is to survive. Do you understand?”

 

“Don't worry, Doctor.” Mycroft heard Molly's voice and he looked at her with gratitude. “We won't let him die. Not without a fight.”

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all come after me with torches and pitchforks, please read the tags and I promise a new chapter tomorrow


	11. Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spanish Flu has Gregory in its grip but Mycroft, Molly and Sherlock are determined that he won't succumb.

STAY WITH ME.

  
  
  


There was a horrified silence from the majority of the party guests at the doctor's announcement, swiftly followed by them leaving without trying to appear like they were attempting to do so.

 

“We can't leave him here,” said Doctor Fletcher briskly. “He needs to be in bed.”

 

Mycroft took Gregory's top half, Sherlock the bottom and they manhandled his inert form up the stairs to his bedroom, Molly and the doctor following in their wake. 

 

The brothers gently laid Gregory on the bed. He moaned aloud at the contact.

 

“Get him undressed,” instructed Doctor Fletcher.  “We need to try and reduce the fever.”

 

Mycroft and Molly, working in tandem, stripped Gregory of his ruined dinner suit and shirt, leaving only his drawers in place.

 

“Cold water. We need to get his his temperature down.”

 

Sherlock vanished briefly only to return with a basin of water and several cloths.

 

“I've instructed the maids to keep the water coming,” he said as Mycroft and Molly soaked the cloths and began cooling Gregory down. Doctor Fletcher nodded his approval.

 

“I'll go and see Lord and Lady Holmes. It would be best if the house were empty, less chance of the infection spreading. If you can get him to drink, do. And aspirin, crushed is probably best for now. I will come back later.”

 

“I'll see you out.” said Sherlock courteously and they both left.

 

Mycroft continued his application of cold water to Gregory’s head, face and neck. His lover's body, the skin he had touched with such reverence only last night, burned with a hot, dry heat.

 

Sherlock returned, his expression grave.

 

“Everyone's gone. Sherrinford and Alicia have taken the girls to the Dower House and I've told the servants they are free to leave if they wish. Tina said she'll stay to keep us fed and keep the cold water coming. I'll take the car to town and pick up as much aspirin as I can carry. I'll get back as quickly as I can. The chemist will open up for me.”

 

He exchanged a quick kiss with Molly before leaving then she and Mycroft carried on with their ministrations, Gregory's breathing almost the only sound in the room. As Mycroft held his head, Molly spooned water between Gregory's lips and he swallowed reflexively.

 

When he wasn't trying to keep him cool or help him to drink more, Mycroft held Gregory's hand and whispered to him. Only when Molly left the room to change out of her evening wear and into something more practical did he speak loud enough to be properly heard.

 

“You have to fight this, my darling. Please. You must. I can't go on without you for I love you so very much.”

 

Mycroft kissed Gregory's hot hand and held it to his cheek.

 

“Come back to me, my dearest love.”

 

When he was dosed with aspirin, Gregory's heavy breathing eased slightly and he seemed to settle into sleep.

 

Mycroft ran a hand distractedly through his hair as he looked at Molly.

 

“Is it hopeless?”

 

Molly looked grave. She stood up and began to pace the room.

 

“I won't lie to you, Mycroft, because I can see that you care for him a great deal. Before I came back to England I nursed a lot of men with this.”

 

She shuddered as she recalled the oxygen tents, injecting labouring hearts with strychnine and frightened men drowning in their own mucus.

 

“I've seen men recover, but not many. It either cooks their brains or their lungs give out.”

 

Mycroft's expression was one of utter anguish.

 

“But he's not coughing. And as long as we can keep him as cool as possible, there may be hope. I'm sorry, but you did ask.”

 

“I love him, Molly.” confessed Mycroft. “If it wasn't for Gregory I would be dead now by my own hand. He saved me. We have gone through so much, I refuse to give up on him now.”

 

“No one is giving up on him. Let's just make sure he keeps cool.”

 

Without another word, Mycroft dipped the cloth into the bowl, wrung it out and wiped it over Gregory’s face and neck.

 

Doctor Fletcher returned later and examined his patient.

 

“He seems no worse.” he admitted. “Keep doing what you're doing and he might just pull through. Send for me immediately if he starts to deteriorate.”

 

“Of course, Doctor. And thank you for coming back.” said Mycroft.

 

“I'll return tomorrow evening, if you don't need me beforehand. I'll let myself out.”

 

In the early hours, just before dawn, Gregory became distressed, thrashing around on the bed, pain etched into his features. It took both Mycroft and Sherlock to hold him still while Molly administered more aspirin.

 

“He's feeling the pain now,” she said worriedly.

 

“Can't the doctor give him anything stronger than aspirin?” asked Mycroft angrily. Seeing Gregory like that had deeply upset him.

 

“He can't. Strong painkillers will depress his breathing. It's too risky.” Molly replied.

 

“Damn it!” exploded Mycroft. “There must be something more we can do!”

 

“There isn't,” soothed Sherlock. “I'll go and fetch us some tea. It's been a long night.”

 

The morning wore on and Gregory remained the same,either agitated or comatose. 

 

Molly returned from a very necessary trip to the bathroom to find Mycroft vomiting as quietly as possible into the chamber pot.

 

“God, not you too!” she exclaimed in horror. Mycroft managed a weak smile.

 

“It's not influenza. I've one of my headaches, that's all.”

 

“You should rest.” said Molly firmly.

 

“I can rest when all this is over, one way or another. I'll just empty this,” he gestured to the pot, “ And I will be straight back.”

 

He did what he needed to do, diverting to his room to take some of the tablets Doctor Stamford had recommended for when the pain got too bad. He despised taking them ordinarily, as they made him drowsy and made it difficult to concentrate but he owed it to Gregory to keep his mind on getting him to recover, something he was not capable of doing without the tablets.

 

He hurried back to Gregory's room. In his absence Molly had changed the soiled sheets and opened the window to let out the smell of vomit and urine. She was leaning over Gregory with the cold cloths again, urging him to get better.

 

Mycroft took his place at Gregory's bedside and held his lover's hand tightly.

 

Doctor Fletcher looked grave when he returned that night.

 

“There have been three people dead of this in the village. There's absolutely nothing I can do to ease their suffering.”

 

Mycroft and Molly looked aghast at each other as the doctor examined Gregory. He frowned.

 

“His lungs are fine. I don't understand. He should have had his crisis by now.”

 

Putting his stethoscope back in his bag, he looked at Molly and Mycroft.

 

“He may never wake up. I'm sorry, but I think you must prepare yourselves for the worst.”

 

Molly burst into tears while Mycroft looked at him, stunned, not even bothering to thank the doctor who swiftly left.

 

Unable to sit, unwilling to think, Mycroft stood up and crossed to the window. 

 

It was full dark outside but there was not a star to be seen

 

Even the skies are in mourning, he thought helplessly.

 

Then came a voice, a whisper.

 

“Mycroft?”

 

He turned, wild hope surging in his heart.

 

Gregory was awake. His eyes were bright with fever but he was awake.

 

“Oh, love.” Mycroft ran back to the bedside and covered Gregory's face with kisses.

 

“What happened?” asked Gregory. “One minute I was on the portico, the next I'm here.”

 

Molly answered as Mycroft was too overcome.

 

“Spanish flu, Mr Lestrade. We thought we'd lost you.”

 

“Miss Hooper. Sorry I ruined your party.”

 

Molly wiped her eyes and gave him a watery smile.

 

“Doesn't matter. You're going to be all right. That's what's important.”

 

They sat him up and encouraged him to drink, which he did, then he settled down to sleep. Proper, healing sleep this time.

 

Mycroft buried his face in his hands and wept, racked by all the emotions he hadn't allowed himself to feel since Gregory had collapsed. Molly looked exhausted.

 

“Go and get some sleep.” Mycroft advised. “Use my room. I'll stay with him and you can relieve me later.”

 

Too tired to argue, Molly left.

 

Mycroft sat back in his chair and continued his vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish Flu pandemic killed an estimated 50 to 100 milion people between 1918 and 1920.


	12. World's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory is well on the way to recovery, but what kind of future does he have with Mycroft in a world determined to tear them apart?

WORLD’S END

Thank you to everyone who has loved this, commented and left kudos. Apologies for making you cry, making you worry and probably swear. This is the end of what has been a very bumpy road. Thanks for your company on the ride.

_ Two weeks later. _

Gregory finished spooning the delicious broth into his mouth and set the bowl down with a contented sigh.

“Lovely. What I wouldn't give for steak and potatoes.”

Mycroft laughed and took the bowl from him.

“That's a good sign. Your appetite coming back.”

“Probably.” He wiped the sweat off his brow with a corner of the sheet. “If only I didn't feel so bloody weak.”

“You've been terribly ill, my love. You need time to build your strength up.”

Gregory conceded this and lay back against the pillows.

“Could do with some fresh air. And so could you,” he added sternly. “You look awful. You're the colour of milk.”

“You needed me here” said Mycroft simply. 

“Fair enough, but I don't need constant nursing now. You should get some proper rest and some decent food. It'll put the colour back in your cheeks. I mean Miss Hooper only visits once a day now. If she's not worried, neither should you be.”

“Molly's busy with the wedding preparations. Gregory, I almost lost you. That was something I could not have borne.”

Gregory patted Mycroft's hand where it lay on the quilt.

“You don't get rid of me so easily. Maybe I do deserve to be called Lucky after all. I've survived the war, this influenza and I still have you to love me. Yes, I think I really am lucky.”

There was a knock at the bedroom door and Mycroft opened it, allowing Doctor Fletcher in.

“Mr Lestrade. Still improving, eh? Marvellous. Now, sir. Let me listen to your chest.”

Gregory cheerfully submitted to his examination, pulling down his nightshirt when the doctor was done.

“Lungs are still clear. No recurrence of fever?”

“No, I'm just so damnably weak.”

“Only to be expected after such a serious illness. There's nothing to stop you getting out of bed, but you have to take it slowly.”

The doctor turned to Mycroft.

“No one in the family showing any symptoms?”

“No, thank God.” said Mycroft fervently.

“Good.” The doctor breathed a tired sigh. “There have been five more deaths in the village. I've never known anything as virulent as this influenza.” Then he frowned. “By rights nearly everyone at the engagement party should have been stricken, but Mr Lestrade was the only one. Either the guests are particularly resilient or…”

“Or it wasn't the Spanish influenza after all.” said Gregory. “Whatever it was, it hit me like a train. I must thank you yet again for your help, Doctor.”

“I have been more than adequately compensated by Lord Holmes. The only prescription I can give you now is rest, Mr Lestrade.”

“Thank you anyway,” said Gregory, shaking the man's hand. Mycroft got up to show the doctor out. 

When he returned, Gregory was looking thoughtful.

“I hope me being here isn't inconveniencing your family, Mycroft.”

“Don't be ridiculous! What were we to do? Throw you out to sink or swim? Gregory, don't worry yourself about any of that. We never entertain since the entire county has branded Sherrinford a coward and at each family dinner the only concern has been for your welfare. My family knows what you mean to me, my love.”

“Your brother's a coward? How did they work that one out?”

Mycroft sighed and sat on the bed.

“Time for a little Holmes history lesson. You never got the chance to see what a vast estate this is, Gregory. It takes a great deal of organising to get the best crop yields and to ensure that the animals produce the meat this estate is famous for. The tenant farmers are incredible men but Sherrinford is the one who makes sure everything runs smoothly. When the war started, I volunteered out of some misguided patriotism. Sherlock followed, even though the ink on his Divinity doctorate was still wet. Sherrinford decided to remain here and keep the estate running. He had a wife and four children to consider as well. Absolutely nothing would be served by his volunteering. Shortly after Willy McPhail in the village came home from Ypres with no legs, the white feathers started arriving.”

Gregory looked disgusted.

“After all we went through, four years of absolute hell, I think your brother had the right idea.”

“As do I. It would have been a catastrophe if anything had happened to him as none of us would have known where to start in managing this place. The thing about the countryside is that people have long memories, he won't be easily forgiven. Not when there isn't a family around here who hasn't been blighted by this bloody war.”

“Including yours,” Gregory reminded him.

“We all came home, Gregory. Others were not so lucky. Fortunately our family was never big in Society, so we don't miss them. Sherlock will move to his new parish after the wedding and the rest of us will settle back into comfortable obscurity.”

“And you?” There was a lump in Gregory's throat. This was the perfect time to ask the question that had been plaguing him since he learned Mycroft had regained his sight. “What will you do? Go back to Cambridge?”

Mycroft looked briefly puzzled, then he smiled. It was a smile of such deep tenderness and exasperation that Gregory felt his eyes prickle with tears.

“Is that what concerns you? Oh, my dearest love. I resigned my Fellowship as soon as I came home. I cannot face the rigours of academia now, not while I'm still plagued with these appalling headaches. My future, however it turns out, lies with you. I was going to tell you all this when you came up for the party.”

Gregory squeezed Mycroft’s hand.

“My darling. Are you absolutely sure?”

Mycroft answered him with a kiss.

*

A week later, Sherlock and Sherrinford stood at the window of the drawing room which looked out onto the vast lawn. Two figures were outside, warmly wrapped against the bitter wind.

Sherlock watched Mycroft lead his friend slowly across the lawn, Gregory clinging tightly to both Mycroft and his walking stick. Their faces were flushed with cold and the heat of something else. Something that bothered Sherlock immensely.

“Glad to see Lestrade up and about.” said Sherrinford as he poured sherry for himself and his brother.

“Yes, he's vastly improving. Which means he will be leaving soon.”

Sherrinford looked at his brother in surprise.

“I thought you liked the fellow.”

“I do. However, Mycroft is besotted with him. He doesn't even try to hide it.”

Sherlock gestured at the couple through the window who had stopped to catch their breath. Mycroft still held tight to Gregory and, even from a distance, the love in his face as he looked at him companion was unmistakable.

“Now, Sherlock. We’ve always known what Mycroft is. I never thought you'd take against him for his nature.”

“I fear for his immortal soul.” said Sherlock. “Even if he does not believe such a thing exists. However, speaking practically, what is to become of them, Sherrinford? They cannot remain here as they are. I know the servants are already gossiping, Molly overheard them. And if they should go to London, return to Lestrade's house, how long will it be before one or both of them are arrested simply for loving each other? Mycroft would never stand prison. I have prayed for a solution but none seems to be forthcoming.”

“Father got a letter from Dickie Hexham last week.” said Sherrinford. “Apparently the war and this influenza has decimated his villages. He mentioned that he particularly needs a schoolmaster for Malton.”

Sherrinford was gratified to see something like hope kindling in Sherlock's eyes.

“Do you think…”

“I don't know. I'll discuss it with Father first. No point sending them to an even worse fate, little brother. And I don't want to give those two false hope either. Keep it under your hat, there's a good chap.”

“Yes, of course. Look, they’re on their way in now. Go and speak to Father tonight, Sherrinford. If this can be sorted out quickly, then it will be better for everyone. All I want is my big brother to be safe and happy, however it may manifest itself.”

“I’ll talk to him before dinner,” agreed Sherrinford. “No point in trying to talk to him afterwards, he’ll be absolutely blotto.”

*

A week later, Gregory was starting to feel much more like his old self. The debilitating weakness was gone and he had started sketching again. One of his first pieces was of Molly, wearing a simple cotton frock with her hair unbound. Sherlock had been most effusive in his thanks when Gregory had presented it to him.

“She looks so beautiful,” Sherlock had sighed. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You’re family has done more than enough for me, Vicar. That’s just a tiny piece of my gratitude.”

Gregory was in the library when Mycroft found him, fast asleep with a regimental history in his hand.

“Wake up, Gregory!” exclaimed Mycroft. “My father has summoned us to the Dower House.”

“Shit. I think this is where he tells me to bugger off and never darken your door again. Or something like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” smiled Mycroft. “However I am curious as to what he wants.”

The two men walked slowly down the long drive to the Dower House where a maid let them in and showed them into the drawing room.

Mycroft’s father was the only occupant and he stood up as his son and his companion entered the room.

“Lestrade. I hear you’re almost fully recovered. True, is it?”

“Yes, my Lord. I will be leaving as soon as I can.”

“Sit. Both of you. Now, I have a proposition to put to you both. It’s come to my attention, and probably everyone else’s who has ever seen you two together, that you are as much a couple as any two joined in matrimony. It won’t do. You will be found out. Blackmailed. Just like poor Rudy.”

“Father…”That was from Mycroft. Gregory felt his insides turn cold.

“Don’t interrupt, Mycroft. I’m not condemning you both. Am I right in thinking that wherever this man goes, you will follow him, son?”

“Yes.” Flat. Defiant. Gregory didn’t think he’d loved Mycroft more at that point.

“Mr Lestrade. You are an artist. Is that your only source of income?”

“No, my Lord. I have a private income from my father’s investments. If I never sold another piece, I would be able to live more than comfortably. And support anyone I needed to.”

“Excellent. Now here is my proposition. The Marquis of Hexham is an old friend of mine. He needs a schoolmaster for his school at Malton. The former master bought it at Passchendaele and there is no one else remotely suitable.Mycroft, the position is yours if you want it. It comes with its own cottage, World’s End. You and Mr Lestrade could be very happy there. It’s very remote, no one would bother you and you could live out your days together there. If you want to, that is.”

Mycroft turned to Gregory, his eyes blazing.

“We’d be going back to Northumberland, Gregory! It’s only a couple of miles from Malton Grange. I will still be able to teach and you can paint.It seems to good to be true.”

“That is a most generous offer, my Lord. It sounds idyllic.”

“You won’t miss London?” asked the old man, shrewdly.

“A little at first, I don’t doubt. But I am happiest wherever Mycroft is.”

“Good,” grunted Lord Holmes. “I happen to love all my children, Mr Lestrade. I won’t see one of them condemned and in fear of his life like my poor baby brother. Look after him. Come and visit at Christmas and keep him happy and I will consider it an excellent match. Mycroft, I will be increasing your allowance, just as I would if you had married. It should be more than enough to keep you both in reasonable comfort. I shall speak to my lawyer tomorrow and write to Dickie to tell him you’ve accepted and to get the cottage habitable.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Mycroft, wringing his parent’s hand.

“Thank you, my Lord. You have been more than generous.”

“Now that’s settled, let’s drink on it.”

That night, Mycroft came to Gregory’s room and they snuggled together under the blankets after they had made love.

“Can you believe it?” asked Gregory. He reckoned he was still in shock.

“It will be wonderful, Gregory. I know the cottage Father spoke of. It’s right beside the sea, which is how it got its name. Now I find myself eager to get up there and start our new life.”

Gregory held him close.

“Our new life together.” he mused. “Who would have thought it not six months ago. I couldn’t be happier, darling.”

“Nor me,” agreed Mycroft and kissed him.

*

_ Six Months Later _

Mycroft pedaled his bicycle down the rutted track towards World’s End. The sea was in a feisty mood, he could hear it breaking hard on the beach and he smiled as he parked his bike against the cottage wall and unshipped his books from the pannier.

Inside was the delightful aroma of stew and freshly-baked bread. Best of all was his Gregory standing at the stove and stirring the pot.

“Hello, love,” smiled Gregory as Mycroft came over to kiss him. “How was school?”

“Very good. There are some incredibly bright young minds there. I saw Mrs Hudson in the village. I’ve invited her here on Sunday.”

“Great!” enthused Gregory. “I’ll ask Rosie if she minds doing a little extra baking for me on Friday when she comes in. I don’t suppose she will mind.”

Rosie was their maid of all work, a plump smiling widow who was more than happy to look after the domestic side of the cottage three times a week. Thanks to her, everywhere shone with fresh polish and the larder was always full.

“This is ready,” announced Gregory. “ Get the plates, love.”

They ate at the dining table and washed the dishes together, chatting about their respective days. Mycroft could feel another of his headaches coming on. Their frequency had reduced dramatically and he had hope that they would cease altogether.

Gregory, always in tune with him, insisted he sit down while Gregory finished cleaning up.

That done, it was just starting to get dark outside, but it was still warm.The sound of the sea lapping at the beach filtered through the open window as Gregory lit the oil lamps and closed the curtains. He smiled at Mycroft who sat in his usual place by the unlit fire.

“Would you like me to read to you, my love?” he asked.

“Nothing would please me more, Gregory. Something from Shakespeare, perhaps?” Mycroft replied.

Gregory ran his finger along the spines of their mutual book collection on the shelves of the bookcase until he found what he was looking for.

There was a very tender smile on Mycroft’s face as Gregory sat opposite him with the book in his hand and started to read.

The End.


End file.
